Chapter Thirty-Six
Hayilkah’s fever lasted ten days.
On the eleventh day it broke, and everyone knew he would live.
Jack skipped a stone across the creek. There was a constricting tightness in his chest, as if he were wearing an iron band. For a while, it had seemed as if he and Candice would never have to face the future—their future.
After that one terrible time, they had avoided any and all conversation that might lead to a repetition of what had happened.
Candice never again pried into his past, and they avoided all topics relating to Tucson, the High C, and her family.
They monitored Hayilkah’s progress daily, and Jack felt a guilt-laden relief each day that the fever lingered.
Candice had spent some time with the women, doing women’s chores—mostly preparing food for the winter ahead—and Jack had spent time with the braves, hunting.
They had spent their nights together in a frenzied kind of passion. As if there were no tomorrow.
They could no longer avoid facing the inevitable.
Jack’s obligation, his responsibility, his honor, demanded that he return Candice to her people and her home.
He had married her in the first place to free her.
He had never dreamed she would be a willing wife, never dreamed he could ever have a woman like her.
Never, when he married her, had he thought they would discover such passion in each other’s arms, such intimacy. And, for Jack, such love.
He had known for a long time that he was in love with Candice, but it wasn’t something he had been able to face. Until now. And it hurt.
The pain of losing her was almost unbearable.
He thought: But things are different now. True, I married her to free her. But she comes to me willingly, eagerly. She is my wife. I don’t have to give her up.
Of course, he could not force her to remain with him, it was not done. Women, too, had the right of divorce. Which meant, if he wanted to keep her, he would have to tell her about their marriage and give her a choice. Did he dare even hope she would want to stay with him?
He thought of all the moments they had shared, much of it spent in sex.
Still, there were other times, when she cooked his food and mended his clothes and teased and flirted.
He thought of how she had come to know all the children by name, and how she had played with the littlest ones, making them shriek with laughter.
He imagined her with his children, and it was something he wanted more than he had ever wanted anything, other than her.
Hope suddenly reared in his heart, hot and potent.
He had a chance. He knew he did. He would will it that she would agree to stay with him as his wife.
Although there was a dark corner of fear within him, he shoved it away and hurried back to their gohwah with a light stride.
He began thinking of the future. Of course they could not stay there—for all the same old reasons.
But they could move away, far away, maybe to California, or the Oregon Territory.
They could farm, ranch. They could homestead.
Maybe she was already pregnant. Maybe next year, at this time, she would be nursing his son.
She was kneeling over a pot of stew, stirring it.
She had become a good cook. She was wearing, as always, the feather headband he had made for her, her hair tied in one fat braid, which was very different from the Apache women’s style.
He had made matching earrings for her, and they skimmed her cheeks as she leaned forward, shades of blue and red, silver and gold.
She had yellow hair the color of sunshine, but she looked like a squaw—his squaw—and he smiled.
She looked up and beamed. “Jack, you’re just in time. Come here and taste this. Tell me if it needs more of that funny bark.”
He knelt and took her shoulders. “Candice, Hayilkah’s fever broke.”
Her expression of pleasure faded. “Oh.”
He lifted her to her feet, “We have to talk.”
Candice bit her lip, a gesture of nervousness he was now familiar with.
Her navy eyes were wide and trained right on him.
Her heart was pounding urgently. She felt icy despair.
“I guess it’s time to go back,” she said, and wanted to die when she thought about her family’s reaction to her return.
She closed her eyes, thinking of the ensuing scandal.
“Not necessarily,” he said quietly, watching her face.
Her eyes flashed. “It was one thing to be stuck here in this camp,” she said, “but I won’t be your mistress.”
His world started to crumble. “You’re my wife.”
She stared. “What?”
“I didn’t tell you because there was no point. But under Apache law we are man and wife.”
She stepped back from the impact of the statement. It was impossible! “I don’t believe you,” she said.
“It’s true. I offered for you and was accepted, we shared the gohwah—that’s about all there is to it.”
Candice’s hand went to her winging heart, as if to still it. His words sank in. She was his wife. “But I’m not Apache, Apache law means nothing to me.”
He watched her, his jaw flexing, as more of his world disintegrated.
She imagined the scandal. “Candice married that half-breed,” she could hear Millie Henderson saying.
She went red. She imagined her father—stunned and disbelieving.
She imagined Luke, Mark, and John-John—their cumulative shock.
Having been in this camp for almost two weeks was bad enough, but actually to be married to an Apache. …
She lifted her shocked, frightened eyes to his.
He could barely breathe for the knot that was in his throat. His hand closed around her wrist desperately. “You’re my wife,” he said with a pleading note. “Whether you think so or not. You don’t have to go back. You can stay with me. We could go to California. Wherever you want. We—”
She didn’t hear the last, not really. She stepped away from him. “I can’t be your wife,” she cried. “Jack, are you insane? I can’t—oh, God! No one can find out about this!” she cried frantically.
His face turned expressionless, his voice cold. “Fine. I’ll take you back tomorrow.”
Candice watched him walk away, still dazed. She sank to the ground. She was shaking. It was happening too soon, being confronted with reality, with the future. She was considered married to him? Oh, God. If anyone found out …
She covered her face with her burning hands. She felt something like panic. She remembered the barbecue and the stares and the whispers.
She thought about Jack. A stabbing pain pierced her to her very soul.
But now, now she had to face everything—including what she had become.
No better than a whore. A lady did not willingly give herself to any man outside of marriage, especially not one who was half Indian.
It didn’t matter that he was handsome and virile, and all she had ever wanted in a man.
What mattered was what she had done, how she had acted, had fallen.
The only way she could ever salvage her reputation and atone for her sins would be to marry a white man, become a dutiful wife, and confess all her sins.
She really didn’t want to leave Jack.
That, too, she had to face. It stabbed, it twisted, it wrenched, and it hurt. But it didn’t matter, because she had no choice. She had no choice but to forget everything that had happened between them. After all, she was not some Apache squaw—but Candice Marilynn Carter.
Why, then, thinking of Jack, did she feel so guilty?
He did not return to share their gohwah that night.
Candice couldn’t sleep. She had been thinking—shamelessly—that they still had a few nights together, and even though it was wrong, she wanted more than his intimate touch.
She wanted desperately to lie a few last times in his arms, her body entwined with his, his breath fanning her hair.
She imagined him angrily stalking the riverbanks.
She imagined him in Datiye’s arms. She knew that was not where he was tonight, but soon he would find another woman, and the thought sickened her even though she knew it had to be.
Just as she had to find a husband—a white husband.
She was still awake when the first rays of dawn crept beneath the hide flap. Not long after, it opened and Jack ducked his head in. “I’m saddling the black. We’ll eat and leave.” He ducked out before she could even open her mouth.
She trembled. His face had been devoid of warmth—worse, his eyes were absolutely blank.
She took a breath and pulled on her moccasins.
She rebraided her hair, which had been left loose while she slept.
Her hand fumbled over the headband he had given her, then she put it on with the earrings. She stepped outside.
Jack was already heating up the stew left over from last night, and Shozkay was with him. Candice wished Shozkay would leave so they could talk, but he didn’t. Instead he turned to look at her with dark, grim eyes. He spoke urgently to Jack in Apache, and Candice wished she could understand.
Jack replied in a monotone without looking up from what he was doing. Shozkay argued, angry. Finally he gave up and left.
Jack handed her a bowl of stew and bread made from corn and berries. She waited for him to look at her, acknowledge her, say something, but he didn’t. He squatted and ate quickly and efficiently. Candice had no appetite. “Jack? What did Shozkay want?”
Jack set his empty bowl aside, standing. “He wanted me to stay.”
She bit her lip. “Jack?”
He went into the gohwah and came out with all their things—the hides and blanket, his weapons and saddlebags. He dumped everything on the ground, and she watched as he began dismantling the shelter. She felt sick with heartache. She clutched her hands together.
“Take the pot and bowls down to the creek and wash them out,” he said without even glancing at her.
The frame fell to the ground.
Candice held back tears and picked up the items and started away. Her vision blurred. It was better this way, she decided emotionally. Better to make a clean break now than have even a few more days.
Of course she was lying to herself, and she knew it.
Luz was waiting back at the camp with Shozkay, and Datiye was there too, talking a mile a minute to Jack.
Candice handed Luz the bowls and the pot, which they had borrowed, but she stared at Jack listening to Datiye.
She was standing too close to him. She touched his arm, let her hand linger. Jack shrugged, spoke, and turned away.
Candice hated her.
He won’t have to look very far for another woman, she thought bitterly.
Luz embraced her fondly. Candice found herself blinking back more tears, then crying. “Usen guard you well, sister,” Luz said softly.
“Thank you,” Candice said, wiping her eyes. “Usen guard you too—God go with you.”
Shozkay and Jack looked at each other, then embraced.
Jack had packed up what he wanted and left the rest for his brother.
He swung up into the saddle, then dropped his foot from the stirrup, and held out a hand.
This was all done impassively. Candice settled behind him, her heart wrenching again.
At the touch of her breasts against his back, and her hands on his waist, he stiffened, and she almost gave in to the urge to weep.