Chapter Sixty-Four
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.