Chapter Sixteen #2
Jack fought the overwhelming urge to cry. Not now, he told himself, it is too soon.
“Soon you will marry?” It was a hopeful question.
“There is no one I want,” he replied honestly.
“Then find someone, Salvaje,” she said. “You are too fine a man not to have sons.”
The mention of finding a woman to bear his children added to his grief in one vivid, painful memory.
He could still see Chilahe, his first wife, lying so still and dead, in a pool of all her life’s blood, their daughter stillborn.
But the way his mother had used his name had turned her wish into another command—one he could not refuse. “Yes, shimaa,” he said respectfully.
“There is always Datiye. She still wants you. She would remarry you.”
Jack nodded, choking up from deep inside.
“But I feel in my heart that you will take a white wife this time. I do not understand. Although white blood fights red blood in your veins, your heart and soul are Apache.” She closed her eyes. “One day, shiye’, you will have to make a choice.”
Jack lifted her hand to his face. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks. And her words echoed. Didn’t she know that he had already made his choice?
Nalee had fallen back to sleep. Shozkay came in and the two brothers sat with her for a long time, until the moon had risen well into the sky.
No one interrupted, respecting their right to be with their dying mother.
Somewhere around midnight she awoke, asking for water.
Shozkay raised the bowl to her lips, helping her to drink.
“I see Machu,” she murmured. “Still as handsome as the day we met.”
Jack stroked her hair. “Yes, shimaa.”
“He beckons. He is very happy,” she said, so softly he could barely hear.
Nalee died an hour later. Her breathing suddenly slowed and stopped. Just before she died, she opened her eyes and smiled at her sons.
Immediately two elders came to bathe and dress her body.
The camp echoed with distressed wailing and keening, an eerie, distinctly Apache sound of mourning.
Jack stumbled away. With his knife, as was the custom, he chopped his near-shoulder-length hair as short as possible.
The tears flowed easily but silently—he couldn’t make the noises that wanted to rack his body with grief.
As soon as Nalee was prepared, she and as many of her personal possessions as possible were placed on her favorite horse, and the burial party, consisting of Jack, Shozkay, and two of their male cousins, set out.
She was buried in a deep crevice far from the campsite—which would now be moved, because of her death—along with most of her possessions, including a beautiful hunting knife with a turquoise-encrusted handle mat Jack had made for her.
The grave was filled in, her horse killed, and the rest of her possessions scattered about the gravesite.
By the time they had returned to the camp, the sun had been up for several hours.
Jack wandered down to a running creek. The water was icy cold but he didn’t care; his grief had numbed him. He stripped off his buckskins.
He bathed in the creek mindlessly. His sadness would not lessen.
Nalee was joining her husband in the afterlife all Apache believed in.
Jack believed in it too, but he wanted her back.
He stepped out of the creek, then tensed.
There was someone in the shadows of the pinyon trees.
His gun lay on the ground by the heap of his buckskins.
Suddenly, without warning, he darted one hand out and grabbed the intruder.
It was Datiye, and she gasped in pain.
Jack stared at her, still Holding her wrist. She had loosened her long, jet-black hair, and the sunlight danced from it.
His grip relaxed. Her eyes searched his.
She was one of the prettier squaws; she had Apache features—high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, a straight, slightly hooked nose.
Her figure was almost perfect, long-legged and slim-hipped, with small but enticing breasts.
She was Chilahe’s younger sister, and he had married her as was his duty almost a year after his first wife’s death.
And he had divorced her when he left his people, so she would be free to remarry—to be cared for by another brave.
Jack released her. “What are you doing here? You could get in big trouble if someone sees you here, watching me bathe.”
“I don’t care,” she said softly. “You are grieving. I have come to take away the grief.”
Jack turned away. “You can’t take away the grief, woman. No one can.” He bent for his clothes. When he straightened, he felt her soft buckskin-clad body against his back, her hands on his shoulders. He quickly turned to face her, removing her hands and pushing her away. “No.”
“Please,” she breathed. “I waited a whole winter for you to return, and then I married. Now I am a widow. Let me love you. It will make you forget.”
“I do not want to forget,” Jack snapped. “And the last thing I feel like doing now is making love.”
Datiye’s mouth trembled. “I helped you to forget once, or have you forgotten? I want to be your woman.”
Jack had pulled on his buckskin pants. He buckled the gunbelt with the solitary Colt. “I already have a woman,” he told her.
“A white woman?” Her voice quavered with tears.
“Yes,” Not that it was true. But this infatuation had gone on long enough.
Even before he had married Chilahe, Datiye, who was only a year younger than her sister, had indicated to him that she was open to his attentions.
He had not given them. When they were only children—boys and girls being taught together in the ways of the woods by Grandfather—she had always trailed after him in particular, and had begged him to teach her the strange language of the White Eyes.
He had. When Chilahe had died, even after mourning, he had not wanted to wed Datiye, but it had been his duty to do so and provide for her family.
Chilahe had been a good wife, a hard worker, and eager to please him in their bed of hides.
He had married her in his sixteenth or seventeenth winter, shortly after being given warrior status.
Never had he dreamed that the most beautiful girl in the band would want him, but she had.
His desire for a wife had been natural—he needed a woman to care for him and share his bed.
It was the next logical step for a brave after attaining warrior status and enough possessions to pay the bride price.
So he had cared for Chilahe. Together they had lived and laughed, and learned a hot, adolescent passion. And even though that had been a long time ago, he would never care for another woman again. The reason was simple. He had no room in his life for any woman—Apache or white.