Chapter Sixty
She was showing.
It was eight days into March—and Jack had left exactly one month ago.
Candice was four months’ pregnant and already beginning to show.
However, she was careful to hide it, and so far her secret was safe.
She’d let out two of her dresses and was constantly draped in a dark-green shawl that effectively hid the swelling of both her breasts and her belly.
She had never been more tired in her life—or more lonely and afraid.
There had been no more news since Henry’s visit ten days ago. That frightened her. She didn’t believe that no news was good news. She had to find out what was going on—and there was no way for her to do so.
It was a bitterly cold, gray day and it looked as if more snow would fall.
Just my luck, Candice thought bitterly. She had laundry to do.
But today, because of the weather, she would wait just one more day, and hope tomorrow would be warm and sunny.
Honestly, she was just too tired to do the backbreaking work, and Doc Harris had warned her a few days ago not to push herself so hard.
He had been kind enough to bring her half of a roasted turkey with blackberry stuffing.
She wondered if it was true—that he was living out of wedlock with a young, very pretty Mexican woman. If so, she was a wonderful cook.
Louis came running in with the morning’s eggs, a tall, gawky boy with a missing front tooth. “Buenos dias, senora. Today is very good, sí?”
“Oh, yes, it is,” Candice replied with real delight, counting the precious eggs. “Thank you, Louis. Please bring me in some water before you go.”
He left as quickly as he had come and Candice sighed, setting the eggs aside carefully.
The wind had picked up, indicating a storm, and the doors and shutters shook and rattled against the house.
Doc Harris had also split some wood for her—which happened to be the least of her problems because, with a fetching smile, she could always get one of the soldiers to do it for her too.
There was a sharp rapping at the door.
Candice, who was kneading dough (and even that made her tired) got up, instinctively patting the gun in her apron pocket before pulling her shawl more securely over her breasts.
She peered out one window, then smiled when she saw a red-nosed Henry Lewis standing on her doorstep with more laundry.
She had just seen him last week, and she knew he was not there because he had a passion for clean clothes.
“Hello, Henry, come in, it’s cold out.”
“That it is,” he said, shivering despite his army greatcoat. “Who would have thought it’s like this in winter out here? I thought the sun always shone in the desert.”
Candice laughed as he came in. “So did we when we first came out here.”
He looked at her, removing leather gloves. “You and your husband?”
“No, me and my family. They’re in Tucson.” The instant she said it, she regretted it. She had been keeping her identity a secret.
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Let me take your coat,” she said. When she reached for it her shawl slipped, but she didn’t notice it as she hung his coat on a peg. She turned back. “How about—” Seeing his expression of shock, she froze.
Then went red. His eyes were on the protrusion of her belly, and she immediately dragged the ends of her shawl together.
“My God,” Henry said, stunned.
Candice decided to make light of it. “Surely I’m not the first pregnant woman you’ve ever seen?” She laughed and went to the coffeepot. “I just made fresh coffee, Henry.”
He was behind her, his hands closing over her shoulders. It was the first time he’d become so intimate. She stiffened as he turned her abruptly. “He deserted you while you’re pregnant?”
Candice felt the old combination of anger and hurt rising. Hurt and anger that Jack had deserted her. But she felt compelled to defend him. “You don’t understand.”
“You shouldn’t be doing laundry!” Henry cried passionately. “You need a man to care for you, my God!”
“I’m doing just fine,” she said, but she knew he was right, she did need a man—she was too tired to bear her burden alone.
He cupped her face. “I’ll help you, Candice. I’ll split more wood and do your chores before I leave.”
“Henry …” She was overwhelmed with his kindness—but frightened by it too. Would a man who simply lusted after her go to such trouble? She didn’t want him to fall in love with her. But, God, she needed someone.…
“Don’t say a word. Let’s have that coffee and then I’ll go out, milk the cow, split the wood, fetch the eggs, and bring you water. Okay?”
He was still holding her face. Tears sparkled in her eyes. Damn you, Jack, she thought miserably, for putting me in this position. Then she blinked and knew Henry was going to kiss her.
His lips were light and tender, and so very gentle. Candice wanted to be held—she needed it. The kiss meant nothing to her, stirred nothing within her, but she leaned against him and he wrapped his arms around her and held her, and she closed her eyes, sighing. If only she were in Jack’s arms.
After a cup of coffee, Henry got up and went outside.
She could hear him splitting wood. She was feeling dangerously emotional, and very low.
But the rhythmic sound of the ax was reassuring and comforting.
When suddenly it stopped, Candice waited for it to resume.
When it didn’t, something pricked at her, and she got up and opened the door.
She almost fainted.
Jack sat on his stallion, dressed from head to toe in buckskins, fully armed with two revolvers, a knife and rifle, ammunition belts crossed over his chest. He was staring at Henry, who stood in his blue-and-black army uniform, ax in one hand, staring back.
The stallion shifted restlessly.
Jack turned his gaze to her.
Candice didn’t think, she reacted. She smiled, a dazzlingly brilliant smile of profound joy, and ran down the two steps and across the yard, arms open. He slipped from the horse and then she was in his embrace—his warm, hard embrace, cheek to cheek.
He set her back, gave her a long, hot look—the kind of look that told her he hadn’t had a woman since he’d left her—and he turned to Henry, who was flushing furiously. Candice clung to Jack and he put his arm possessively around her. “Thanks for chopping wood for my wife,” he said levelly.
Henry dropped the ax and came forward, still highly colored. “You’re the one who should be here doing this! Not me!”
Candice bit her lip. “Henry!”
“And just how is it you’re on such close terms with my wife?” Jack asked, with no inflection except to the last word.
“I—”
“We met through Doc Harris,” Candice cut in, using the first lie she could think of. She gave Henry a warning look, then flamed when she saw Jack reading it.
They stared at each other.
Henry broke the silence and awkwardness. “Candice, I guess I’ll go.” With that he turned and retrieved his coat, shrugging it on. Jack didn’t move, his arm still around her until Henry had mounted and was riding out.
“You go inside,” Jack said, looking at her with piercing eyes. “I have to rub down the black.”
“Jack …”
“We’ll talk inside.” He led his horse to the covered remuda.
Candice turned and went into the house. There was no mistaking her joy. She was apprehensive, too, because of Henry. But if Jack had never left her, she wouldn’t have the need for another man to do her domestic chores. She was just praying that he wouldn’t think it meant something more.
And then there was the anger. Even though it had taken a backseat to her happiness at seeing him again, he had left her at a terrible time, and that wasn’t something she could forgive him for so quickly. Even now she could feel her body tensing.
But maybe he had come back to stay.
She was standing with her hands on a chair when Jack entered, tossing his rawhide hat onto a peg. Their gazes locked. Nervously Candice said, “Jack, Henry only helps out because of my condition.”
He unstrapped his gunbelt and hung it on a peg, then turned, eyes blazing. “He’s in love with you.”
Candice went red. “I don’t think so. It’s not what you’re thinking.…”
He removed the ammunition belts, tossing them on a chair. “No?” His tone was as cold as ice chips.
He had left her. If he’d stayed, she wouldn’t have needed Henry’s help, and now, now he was making accusations … “How dare you!” she cried. “What are you accusing me of? Are you calling me a whore again?”
His fist smashed down on the table, making it jump, knocking a pitcher and bowls to the floor, where the pottery shattered. “Has he touched you?”
“You left me. You abandoned me, you have no right coming in here demanding—”
He grabbed her, pulling her up against him. “I have every right. You’re my wife. Did he touch you?”
Candice could feel the entire length of his hard body, and it was trembling with fury and jealousy. She herself was shaking, enraged and sick. “Damn you, Jack, damn you! I needed his help, you left me, and Henry was kind.”
“How kind?” Jack gritted.
“You bastard!” she cried. Tears welled up in her eyes. “All right, he kissed me once, damn you, once, and if you were here he wouldn’t have. It’s all your fault!”
For one instant Jack stared into her eyes, and she thought she saw it all, the anger, the hurt, the jealousy, the love. Then his mouth came down, hard and abrupt, on hers. Candice tried to turn her face away, but he held her jaw. “Did he kiss you like this?” He claimed her lips again.
“No.” Candice sobbed. “Don’t. Not like this.”
Jack froze, eyes squeezed painfully closed, his big body rigid.
She felt him fighting with himself, felt him begin to relax, felt his hands slide up her arms. Their gazes met, and the agony in her own heart was clearly mirrored in his eyes.
“Don’t cry, shijii,” he said, his voice husky.
“I’m sorry.” He kissed her, slowly and sensually, and she could feel him trembling with the restraint of his pent-up passion.
“Don’t leave me again, Jack,” she said, tears streaking down her cheeks.
He groaned and his arms went around her. “Darling.” He kissed her again, this time with urgency, and she opened to him, just as urgently.
After a long time he lay her on the bed and began removing his clothes. She stared at the necklace of turquoise and silver lying on his broad, muscled chest. Need for him rose up in her, swelling her painfully. It pounded through her veins. It throbbed in every pore. “Oh, Jack.”
He straightened before her, magnificently naked.
She looked at him hungrily, unable to turn her gaze away. So powerful, so beautiful, muscles rippling beneath bronzed skin. His manhood was thick, erect, eager. He came to her.
She enveloped him in her arms while he kissed her like a starving man, hard and frantically, his hands roaming desperately down her body, over her lush, swollen breasts.
She loved him, needed him, badly. She locked her arms around him and probed his mouth wildly with her tongue.
She bit his mouth, his jaw, his throat. She tasted blood.
She held his head still with both hands and devoured his mouth.
He removed her dress and chemise and she heard a seam ripping but didn’t care.
His mouth came down hard and unceremoniously on one nipple, and she moaned.
He started to suckle wildly. His teeth almost hurt.
He was frantic, as frantic as she. Through the haze of hot, pulsing desire, she knew he had missed her the way she had missed him.
And she felt a thrill of elation in knowing that he needed her—still wanted her with a desire and passion that matched hers.
“Candice, you’re even more beautiful pregnant,” he said huskily, nuzzling her swollen breasts.
He had removed her pants and undergarments, and now stroked his hand up and down her hips and thighs, again and again.
He moaned, a choked sound, and rose up over her, parting her thighs with his knees. He paused to look down into her eyes.
His face was rigid with desire, his eyes glazed with lust. She captured his head with her hands, trembling uncontrollably, pulling him down so she could tear at his mouth with her own. He thrust into her.
His thrusts were hard and fast, and she arched to meet him, clamping her legs around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders.
It was only a moment later that it came, their simultaneous release, bodies arched, convulsed, exploding, the one into the other.
And then he dropped to lie drained and wet on top of her, still entwined, still as one.