Authors: Brenda Joyce
“You divorced her?”
“No,” Jack said shortly. “I do not want to endanger her child.”
“Two pregnant wives,” Nahilzay said, his lips turning into a smile of amusement. “May they both be sons.”
Jack nodded curtly, but did not thank him for the compliment, for that would have been considered ungrateful. He thought that Nahilzay was softening toward him with the addition of Datiye and Luz to his household.
“Tomorrow we ride the path of war,” Nahilzay told him.
Jack watched him walk away, then turned to the task at hand.
Some five hundred warriors in full war dress thundered across the Sulphur Springs Valley, turning north to bypass the Dragoon Mountains, where Cochise’s west stronghold was hidden. Jack was fully armed with a quiver of arrows and bow, a lance, his rifle, Colt and a knife. The bow, arrows, and lance he carried were Shozkay’s, which Datiye had wisely packed in the Coyotero camp. Brown and black white-tipped eagle feathers hung from the end of the lance and the black’s bridle. Jack’s face was barely distinguishable beneath streaks of red, yellow, and black paint. Before he had left, Datiye had pressed a war amulet upon him, and he did not know whose it was, or if she had made it for him overnight and gone to the shaman for blessings. The mass of warriors veered south down the Sonoita Valley.
Their target was the Warden ranch, just twelve miles north of Fort Buchanan.
They bypassed the other ranches in the valley, and when they surrounded Warden’s, it was still dark, the sky turning from black to slate and then mauve gray in the east. An owl hooted. The signal to attack. With wild war cries from every direction, the Apaches attacked.
Jack was riding at a gallop amid dozens of warriors toward the back of the ranch house, a wooden one-story cabin with one chimney, smoke wisping upward. He urged the black on until he reached the front ranks of the riders, then surged ahead, alone. The cabin was only twenty yards away … fifteen … ten. He wanted Warden.
He let loose a bloodcurdling scream.
He rode the black straight at the house, and when a rifle protruded from the window that was the focus of his attention, he drew his Colt and fired. The rifle blasted with a puff of smoke, but a second too late. The barrel waved loosely, aimlessly, in the air before slipping out of sight behind the windowsill.
Jack sawed hard on the reins. The black reared, then came down and was turning for another pass at the window. All around him Apaches were attacking the cabin, the
bunkhouse, the cookhouse, and torching everything they could. Flames were starting to lick at wood, smoke curling almost lazily. The stock that had been freed from the corrals were stampeding, horses screaming, a donkey braying. Jack reached the window at a gallop, pulled up hard, and leapt off, dropping the stallion’s reins. Gun and knife in hand, he threw himself against the wall and peered through the window.
To meet the startled gaze of a man.
They both lifted their guns simultaneously, but Jack was quicker, and he blew the man’s face apart, flesh, blood and brains splattering his shirt and face. He climbed through the window, dropping agilely to the floor. He paused, eyes searching the dark interior, to wipe his face with one sleeve.
He was in a small bedroom the size of a large closet with one bed and a table, the door partly ajar. Already he could smell smoke, even see wisps—five hundred warriors could do great damage against a dozen unsuspecting men in a very short time. He could even hear the crackling of flames, and when he looked back at the window he had come through, he saw a tendril of fire snaking into the house. He pushed through the door.
A woman screamed, raising her rifle.
Jack fired instinctively and she fell, blood flowering on her chest. But he wasn’t looking at her.
“Warden!” he shouted.
The big rancher was at the window across the kitchen, where flames were moving rapidly along both walls converging upon him. He had already turned at the sound of the gunshots, had already raised his rifle, was already pulling the trigger.
The front door burst open with a splintering of wood. Cochise, Nahilzay, and another warrior burst in. Warden and Jack were firing. Jack knew the woman had cost him the draw, and felt the burning sensation of the bullet as it tore into his side. Simultaneously three rifles boomed, and Warden fell backward, blood gushing from his neck, his chest, his ribs. He screamed as he fell into the flames, and was engulfed in the inferno.
“Come, Niño Salvaje!” Cochise ordered.
Jack realized he had staggered backward until he was sitting on a chair. With effort, holding his hand over his side,
sticky blood pouring through his fingers, he tried to stand, and barely managed. Dizziness swept him. Nahilzay reached him first, grabbed him, threw one arm around him, and half propelled, half dragged him out.
All around him the Apaches were looting and destroying the ranch. Jack looked around for his horse and whistled feebly, then again with all the effort he had. The black came galloping around the corner of the house, eyes white and rolling, ears pinned back, nostrils flaring. Jack grabbed the reins, placed one foot in the stirrup, clinging to the pommel, trying to heave himself up, failing, and was pushed upward from behind. He managed to find his seat and hung grimly on. He nudged his horse slightly. The black needed no prodding to follow amid the rest of the galloping horses. Caught up in the herd of thundering warriors, the black ran, while Jack fought to stay on.
It was too late.
She miserably regretted every word she had said to Jack. She had wanted to hurt him. She had ranted at him in a combination of hurt, anger, and hysteria. She should have known better. He was a man of determination, and nothing she could say or do could change his mind from doing what he thought was right. But what about her? What about the baby?
A little over a week had passed since Jack had been home, and although she regretted her rash words, her bitterness had not faded. If anything, it was stronger than ever. She couldn’t help making an ugly comparison. His Indian heritage was more important to mm than his own wife and baby. That hurt unbearably. He had said he loved her. Well, he wasn’t capable of it. She wanted a divorce.
It seemed to be the only solution. Maybe, with time, she could forget Jack and fall in love again. But this time with a man who could provide for her and the baby. A St. Louis businessman, or a lawyer, or even a merchant. She could pass herself off as a widow. Of course, she had saved only ten dollars from the laundry, and that certainly wasn’t enough to get to St. Louis.
Damn Jack!
She knew she was only fooling herself if she thought she could ever forget him—if she thought there would ever be another man for her.
But exactly what kind of man was he? Did she even know him? And what in God’s name should she do? Sit there in El Paso until the baby was born? It looked as if she had no choice.
She wondered if Jack would come back.
She wondered if he was all right.
News had come from an outrider about the devastation and carnage that had occurred throughout the Sonoita Valley. An estimated five hundred Apache warriors had gutted Warden’s ranch, then proceeded to attack every ranch in their path as they rode north to the safety of the mountains. Basta’s
spread had survived, but not without casualties, and one man had been killed in the fighting. Fortunately, most of the ranch buildings had been saved, but Basta had lost his entire remuda. Three other ranchers had been attacked as well, with about the same results. The troops had lost the Apaches’ trail at the foot of the Chiricahua Mountains. The huge war party had just seemed to disappear.
She wondered if the next attack would be on the High C.
If Jack rode against her family, it was over. She would never forgive him. Never.
Candice knew it could take years for her to get a divorce. She would probably have to go to California or Texas to get one. The New Mexico Territory not only didn’t have statehood, it had no judges (or law for that matter), and while it belonged to the United States, it didn’t even have the status of a federal territory. Another problem was that she didn’t know if Jack had to be present to obtain a divorce. If he did, she might never be free of him.
And the thought of being free of him made her want to weep.
Why couldn’t they stay together and just be a family? Go somewhere far away where there were no Apaches? Where no one knew them—so they could live in peace and raise their child together, happily. Why couldn’t Jack come to his senses?
Candice didn’t think things could get worse, but they did.
The sun was high and bright. Buds had appeared on the saguaro and octillo in the yard. It was warm enough to go without her shawl, and Candice had even rolled her sleeves up. She bent to pick up wood for the fire when a hand from behind restrained her, and a familiar voice said, “Let me get that, little lady.”
Candice turned with a smile, then saw, with surprise, that it was the preacher who had married her and Jack months ago. He had left town shortly afterward, and she hadn’t known he’d returned. “Good morning,” she said, “and thank you.”
He grinned. “You’re welcome.” Although there was
whiskey on his breath, he didn’t seem drunk. “Hear tell your man’s gone and left. Looks like you could use some help.”
Candice’s skin crawled. It was wrong, he was a man of God, but he repulsed her. She had never seen a preacher so slovenly and ill-kempt. “Yes, well, thank you.” She would have to offer him food and drink, but for some reason the thought of inviting him alone into her house made her terribly nervous.
“I smell fresh coffee.” He grinned, picking up the wood.
Candice bit her lip. “Won’t you come in and sit a spell?”
“Why, sure,” he said, and chuckled. He shifted the wood and followed her into the house. “When’s the little one due?”
Candice froze—it was not a question a man asked of a pregnant woman. “Four and a half months. Could you put the wood over there?”
He complied. Candice turned away to get the coffeepot, hoping he wouldn’t stay long. Her pulse was racing. She was pouring when she felt his hands close around her thickened waist. “What!” She grabbed his wrists. He laughed and tightened his hold, turning her around and pulling her against him.
“Bet you sure miss a warm, hard man at night, don’t you, a gal like you?”
Candice opened her mouth to protest, her hands bracing herself away from his chest. His mouth came down hard on hers and she gagged, trying to push him away. He might be thin, but he was strong, stronger than she was, and it was like trying to budge a stone wall. His lips were wet and repulsive, and she twisted her face away frantically, panting from the effort.
“I’ve had a hankering for you since I saw you,” he breathed into her ear, then squeezed her breast.
“Stop it, stop it this minute!” Candice struggled.
“Don’t play pretend with me. I know you was at Lorna’s before you found your man. Come on, honey, it’ll be real good.” He grabbed her face and held her head still, then began kissing her again.
He was a preacher
. But she didn’t care. She reached into her apron and drew out the derringer and pressed it against his chest. He froze.
“Back off,” Candice gasped.
He did. His expression was one of shock, then it became calculating. “Come on, honey. Put that toy away.”
“Get out before I blow off your head,” Candice said.
He stared, then raised his hands and smiled helplessly. He started backing to the door.
“Don’t you ever come back,” Candice cried, her hand steady by sheer force of will. “I’ll kill you if I ever see you setting one foot in my yard!”
He left.
Candice ran to the door and bolted it, then ran to the window and watched him walking away. Her hand began to tremble, her body began to shake. Sweat was running in rivulets down her face and between her breasts.
Three days later the preacher was arrested for the murder of a man in Corpus Christi by a Texas Ranger. El Paso was buzzing with the news. The “preacher” was a murderer, wanted in New Orleans as well. His name was Benjamin Grady, and he had never been a minister of God. That had been a disguise he’d used to avoid his pursuers.
Which meant that she and Jack weren’t even married
.
Jack was still too weak to get up, but he insisted on trying to feed himself. The fever, which had lasted three days, had broken the day before yesterday. He didn’t remember the ride back. Someone—Nahilzay, Datiye said—had tied him to his saddle. By the time they arrived back at the stronghold he was unconscious from loss of blood. Today was the best he’d felt since the fever, and he wanted to get up, but Datiye wouldn’t let him.
He was in the
gohwah
, on a bed of hides and blankets, one wool blanket pulled up to his hips. The bandage was clean, changed yesterday, and free of blood. The wound was healing nicely, Datiye said, but the next time she changed the bandage he would inspect it himself, to make sure. Propped against his saddle, he spooned the stew made of beans and squirrel into his mouth. He was ravenous. “Who got the squirrel?” he asked.
“The great chief sent it, and more.” Datiye smiled. “You bring me much pride. Your fearless bravery and desire to avenge the hangings is well known.”
“I didn’t kill Warden.”
“You were first inside, alone.” Her eyes shone. “Both the chief and his most trusted warrior spoke of your bravery, in the dance.”
Jack didn’t smile, but he was pleased. She was referring to the victory celebration that followed a successful battle or raid. After the shaman thanked the spirits, each warrior got up in turn to dance out the story of the battle as they had seen it, in pantomime. Datiye told him that Cochise and Nahilzay had included what he had done in their renditions.
When he was finished, Datiye took the bowl and disappeared. She returned with a large pitcher of water and a cloth. He had closed his eyes, tired after eating, but when he felt the cool cloth on his face he stopped dozing.