The Darkest Heart (29 page)

At that precise moment, she appeared in the doorway, looking beautiful despite her whore’s clothing. She saw him and made her way purposefully toward him, her face stricken and determined, She shoved through the crowd, ignoring men who touched her and tried to pull her into their laps as she passed. Jack steeled himself against her.

“Jack,” she cried, her face strained, eyes huge. “Please don’t do this.”

He was too aware of her hands on his arm and chest, her fragrance, her nearness.

“I’m afraid.” She moaned. “What are you going to do? Call him out?”

“You’re in my line of vision,” he told her coolly.

She gasped and stepped aside, glancing worriedly at the doorway. “What should I do?” she asked tersely.

“Stay out of my way,” he told her, his eyes on the doorway.

He watched her walk away, agitated. He imagined her with Kincaid, their bodies slick and wet, Kincaid driving into her. He wanted to believe her—that tonight was the first time she’d been playing the whore, just as he wanted to believe that Kincaid had forced her. You
fool
, he thought. Your preoccupation with her is going to get you killed one of these days—as it almost did in Tucson.

He was Apache. He could sit motionless and wait for hours, if need be. Two hours passed, and it was well after midnight. Jack was not stiff, not sore. Two hours was nothing. He was as alert as ever while he waited for his enemy to appear. And even though his eyes were fixed on the stairway, he always knew where Candice was. He could sense her hanging back by the bar, her anxiety communicating itself even across the room to him. And no one made a move toward her.

It was half-past two when Kincaid appeared. Jack caught a brief glimpse of the man before he disappeared up the stairs. Jack stood, moving the chair away from his legs with one booted foot, waiting for Kincaid to return.

He appeared in the entry of the salon looking as immaculate as ever in a dark suit, the jacket unbuttoned. His gaze ran quickly, excitedly, over the salon, and Jack saw his eyes gleam as he found Candice. Then he saw Jack, and his countenance froze as their gazes locked.

“Kincaid,” Jack said coldly. He was standing in a draw stance, legs slightly spread, thighs tensed, hands ready at his holsters.

Kincaid had opened his jacket and moved it aside so as not to interfere with his draw. Already, people had noticed both men and what they intended, and were clearing away. “So you’ve come for her,” Kincaid said, smiling with no humor.

“You stole my wife,” Jack said softly, but his voice rang out in the sudden silence. Then there was no one between him and Kincaid. Only chairs and tables separated them as they faced each other at a distance of twenty feet. “You will die for that.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he sensed Candice coming closer, could feel her nearness, and saw her out of the corner of his eye. “Candice, get back,” he said, never taking his eyes from Kincaid.

“No,” she cried. “Stop, please, stop this!” He could feel her coming.

And he saw Kincaid reaching.

But it was all over before it began.

He drew his Colt before Kincaid had even cleared his holster. Two, then three red flowers blossomed on Kincaid’s white shirtfront, and he staggered, fell, the gun clattering across the floor.

Candice screamed and grabbed Jack’s arm.

A heavy silence fell over the salon.

Jack turned to her furiously. “I told you to stay back.”

“Are you all right?” she cried.

People began to shift and whisper in hushed, excited tones. Lorna came swiftly forward to kneel by Kincaid. “He’s dead,” Lorna said.

“They say Casey O’Brien just up and left this place one day last spring,” Jack said.

Seated behind Jack on the black stallion, Candice cautiously surveyed the adobe house that was one of the last in town, Just off Main Street, The door was open and swinging slowly in the breeze, half off its hinges. The rawhide windows were cracked and coming loose, hanging drunkenly. There was a corral, which was half completed. A broken bucket, a horseshoe, nails, a tin plate, and a few other items littered the dirt front yard. Candice bit her lip.

After swinging his front leg over the horn, Jack slid down, then lifted her to her feet. He immediately dropped her hand, as if avoiding contact, and Candice, although still stunned and exhausted from all that had happened in the night, was disappointed. She squinted through the dawn light and felt her heart sinking. Were they really going to live here?

“I can fix things up in no time,” Jack said.

Candice followed him inside, and her dismay increased. The floor wasn’t even packed, just loose dirt. A pallet lay in one corner, and the suspicious odors coming from within seemed to emanate from that location. One rickety table and a stool stood in front of the fireplace. The kettle hanging there was black and encrusted. A blanket lay crumbled half way between the bed and table, and a few rats scurried for cover. Candice shuddered. “Do you really think we should stay here?”

Jack lifted his gaze. “Where would you like to stay? Tucson? With the Apaches? You name it, we’ll go.”

Tears welled in her eyes. Jack was angry with her. Ever since they had made love—no, ever since she had refused to remain with him as his wife in the Apache camp, he had been cold and angry. She hated him this way. She brushed her eyes with the back of her hand.

“What’s wrong?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing.”

“You sit down, and I’ll get this place cleaned up.”

“I can help.”

“I want you to rest.”

“I’m no invalid, just pregnant—possibly two months. I can help.”

Jack gave her a quelling look. “I said stay out.”

She wanted to scream at him, but instead her voice was low and taut. “Is it always going to be this way?”

“What way?” He wasn’t even looking at her.

“What way? This way! Damn you, Jack, are you trying to punish me?” She fought tears because she wasn’t going to give him satisfaction now.

He turned to her, his face expressionless. Then he began collecting odds and ends, clearing the room. Candice clenched her fists. She wanted to pound his back, hurt him. “I’ve already been punished enough, damn you,” she said, and her voice cracked.

His shoulder stiffened, and he froze momentarily in the act of moving a rusty bucket. Candice watched him, waiting desperately for him to come to her and set things right. But he didn’t. Instead he gathered the pallet, blanket, and kettle and carried them outside. Candice sat on a stool and fought to come to grips with her overwrought emotions. Maybe he hated her.
I will not cry
, she vowed, blinking furiously.

Jack returned and began sweeping with water, until the floor was hard and packed and spotless. The awful moment of utter despair had passed. She was strong, she would survive this too. She began rubbing her aching back. Jack laid out fresh straw and made a new pallet with his bedroll, then ordered her to lie down and get some sleep.

“Jack?” She sat on the pallet cautiously.

He paused in the doorway. “What?”

“Do you think it will be okay? For us to stay here?”

“If Casey comes back, we’ll find another place.”

“No, I mean, after what happened.”

“I doubt anyone will think much of my killing a man who stole my wife. And Lorna doesn’t want that kind of trouble.”

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be.” He left.

She lay on her back and fought fresh tears. Was it only hours ago that he had been making love to her as if he really
cared? How could she stay with this cold, angry man? And what were they doing? Was she supposed to live with him as his mistress? He may think they were married, but the Apache ritual meant nothing to her—or to society. And what was the alternative? A Christian marriage?

I do love him, was her only answer.

And she fell into an exhausted sleep.

The savory, mouth-watering aroma of a stew simmering awakened her around midafternoon. Candice opened her eyes and turned her head. The first thing she saw was Jack, shirtless, bending over the gleaming kettle, bringing a ladle to his lips. In the glow of the firelight his arms and back rippled, and his perfect profile was cast into vivid relief. Her heart clenched and she sat up.

He looked at her. “Feeling better?”

“Yes,” she said truthfully, smiling.

“Hungry?”

“Starved.”

And he smiled. It lit up his face and made her heartbeat quicken. Then he was all business, ladling out a dish and bringing it to her. When he squatted beside her to hand her the bowl, their gazes met. He was the one to look away first, breaking the intimate contact. Candice took the bowl, dismayed.

Jack stood. “I’m going to go hunting. If I’m not back by nightfall, don’t worry. Tomorrow I’ll trade for some chickens and a milk cow, and whatever else we need. Come spring I’ll round up a few wild longhorns. I can even build us a place outside of town. But we’ll stay the winter here—close to the doctor.”

Candice wondered who he wanted—her or the baby.

Somehow, she didn’t think it was herself.

Jack was not back by the next morning.

Lorna had returned Candice’s clothes, apparently motivated to do so by Jack, but everything seemed wildly inappropriate for the hovel they were living in. She slipped on her most casual cotton dress, and it was like a slap in the face. The careful stiching, lace trim, and bright blue were a startling contrast to the squalor of their home. Home. It was not a home, just a shack. She hated it. She could become very depressed there, especially if Jack kept on acting as if he hated her.

Looking at her pile of dresses, Candice had an inspiration. She knew just what the house needed—a woman’s homey touches, her touches. There was a needle in Jack’s saddlebags. She spent the morning making curtains in a cheerful yellow from two of her gowns, a cotton and a silk. There were only two windows, so it was not a huge chore, but she was already imagining a cranberry bedspread and cheerful floral tablecloth.

She trimmed the curtains with lace. She had nothing to hang them with, so she decided to borrow a hammer. If they were going to be spending the winter there, she might as well get to know her neighbors.

If only she had some money—they needed so many things. Inspired anew, she took two of her taffeta dresses and bundled them up. Surely someone would trade her soap, blankets, a hammer, and a few others things for them.

She was feeling positively cheerful when she stepped outside into the bright morning. A Mexican woman next door was washing her laundry in a big tub outside, stirring the clothes with a huge stick. Candice smiled, her bundle firmly under her arm, and called out a frienldy greeting, starting over. The woman looked up, then looked back to what she was doing.

“Hello,” Candice said again. “Good morning. My name is Candice Car … Savage, and we’re neighbors.”

The woman ignored her.

Candice had a terrible suspicion. Her chin lifted, the
smile faded. “Excuse me. We’re neighbors. I thought you might be interested in—”

The woman looked up and spat at Candice’s feet.
“Puta. Salgate.”
She spat again.

Candice stepped back, shocked. “I only wanted to trade, I have these dresses.”

“Whore’s dresses,” the woman hissed.

Taking a deep breath, her face flaming, Candice turned and hurried away. Once on Main Street she paused, feeling sick and nauseated. Everything had happened so fast, she hadn’t stopped to think that probably the whole town knew she’d been at Lorna’s. She gritted her teeth. What the hell did she care what some middle-aged, fat, Mexican woman thought? She strode down the street.

A piercing wolf whistle sounded.

Startled, Candice searched for the whistler, and her gaze settled on a young rider, grinning at her. He moved his horse alongside her. “Howdy, gal. You sure look pretty in that dress.”

Candice stiffened. She knew that smile—it was lewd and disrespectful. Looking away, she crossed the street. He moved his horse to her side.

“Cat got your little tongue? My name’s Abe. What’s yours?”

She reached the other side of the street and began walking down it. He rode alongside.

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t play shy with me. I know who you are. You’re Candice—that mystery girl of Lorna’s.”

Candice sucked in her breath, then restrained herself from responding. She knew it would do no good.

He leapt down and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go back in the alley. I got a dollar. What d’ya say?”

Candice stopped. “I say get your hand off me—you bastard!”

He laughed, and didn’t remove his hand. “My money’s as good as the next one. ’Sides, you’ll like it, they all do.”

She didn’t think. She struck him, a ringing slap across the face. His expression went from grinning lewdness to shock, and then to anger. He grabbed her before she could avoid him and began kissing her. Candice lifted her knee and jammed it as hard as she could into his groin. The breath left
him in a whoosh, his face went white, and he crumpled to his knees, clutching himself.

Candice was shaking. “My husband will kill you if you ever come near me again,” she warned with bravado she didn’t feel. She had no weapon, and she resolved never to leave the house again alone without a gun or knife. She hurried away, leaving him lying there, groaning.

There was one general store and trading post, a few doors down from Lorna’s. Still shaken from the encounter, Candice took a breath and entered. A little bell tinkled over the door. A heavyset bearded man was behind the counter. Two old men sat before a stove, warming themselves and drinking whiskey. A woman was inspecting bolts of cloth. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at Candice.

She could feel the censure, and she blushed.

Head held high, she walked to the counter. The owner stared. Candice strove to remain composed, placing her bundle on the counter. “Good morning,” she said with false cheer. “I’ve two taffeta dresses here, and I thought I might barter for a few items my husband and I need.”

The man scrutinized her face.