Chapter Seventy-Five
He avoided her.
It was hard enough to prepare to do battle this time, without her accusing gaze and silent condemnation.
Or not so silent condemnation. He tried not to think of the woman he had killed at Warden’s—but it was impossible.
She was haunting his waking moments and his sleep.
He made sure not to bed down for the night until after Candice was asleep, surprised she should still be sharing his bedroll, but he knew she was stubbornly doing so only to defy Datiye and keep her in her place.
If it weren’t for Datiye, Savage was sure he would never get near her at night.
There was another reason why this time it was even harder to prepare for battle than it had been before.
Their target was the Santa Cruz Valley. They would bypass Tucson, which would be too well defended, and hit the ranches down-valley.
Savage was grim. That meant the TR—Judge Reinhart’s spread, as well as Henderson’s, ranches that belonged to Candice’s old friends.
The two places were close enough together that they would attack both simultaneously, dividing their force. Then they would run for the mountains.
He reminded himself that this was war. He reminded himself of his brother’s death, which helped steady his resolve.
He thought of all the Apaches, who numbered an anthill among the mountains of the whites.
This was war for survival—for a way of life, for freedom.
It was probably the last chance for his people.
But my people are white too.
This was a time when a man needed his wife’s gentle touch, her love, and her support. He had none of those things. If he gave her a choice she would leave him without hesitation, and he knew it.
After the fourth night of ceremonial dances and prayers, Savage returned to his gohwah with a strange sadness.
When going into battle there was always the prospect of death.
He was not afraid of death, for he had the Apache attitude, which was somewhat fatalistic.
He did not think his time had come but one could never be sure.
In any case, there was always the possibility that he might never return—might not see his sons born, or see his wife, ever again.
She was sleeping on her side. Her rounded abdomen was hidden by the blanket, but he longed to stroke their child, encased in her flesh.
He wanted to make love to his wife too, and be given some sign that she cared for him, even worried about his departure into battle.
With a sigh, he slipped into the bedroll beside her.
Lying on his side, he pulled her against him, nestling the curve of her buttocks against his groin, her back against his chest. He closed his eyes.
He would never be able to sleep that night, this he knew.
The heat from her body was inflaming him, and his loins were already full, tight, achingly so, his penis stiff and throbbing with life.
He shifted onto his back to stare up at the starless night.
He could hear a baby begin to cry, then silence as its mother fed him.
A man’s voice, inaudible, drifted on the breeze, and with it, a feminine tinkle of laughter.
Excited laughter—at least one husband was saying a fond good-bye to his wife.
Candice rolled against him, full breasts pressing against his arm. She was wearing only her chemise, and a bare knee touched his thigh beneath his loincloth. Then, taking him by surprise, she moved her hand and lightly touched the length of his arousal.
He had thought she was asleep.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
She closed her fingers over him, while freeing him of his loincloth.
He grabbed the roving culprit. “Candice,” he began, a feeble protest. Datiye was sleeping nearby and there were still people up.
The mountain air carried sounds—the nearest gohwah was only thirty feet away and occupied by a family of five.
She threw her thigh over his and mounted him gracefully, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him. He relaxed. He wanted her. He was thrilled she wanted him. He held her head, coiling her hair around his wrist, and accepted her prodding tongue.
They should not be doing this there, he thought, but didn’t care. This could be the last time. Her chemise had ridden up, and she was wet and moist on his belly. “Turn onto your side,” he whispered in her ear. “No, your other side.”
She obeyed in some confusion, so her back was to his chest. “Jack,” she protested in a soft breath.
He pressed his hardness against her buttocks and, with a creeping hand, found her breast. He nibbled the nape of her neck as he rolled a nipple into hardness between his thumb and forefinger.
Then his hand swept down, over the delicious curve of her belly, and lower still, into the warm, wet delta where she throbbed in invitation.
She gasped and bit off the sound. He stroked her rhythmically. She arched against his hand.
He raised her upper leg, then slipped his hand between her thighs from the rear, fingers invading her moistness, showing her the way he would enter her.
She whimpered in understanding. He removed his hand, clasped her hips firmly, and slowly prodded toward his goal.
He plunged into her. Gripping her tightly, moving with growing rapidity, he brought them both to a stunningly quick and intense climax.
He managed to clasp his hand over her mouth as she cried out, while he drained himself into her, riding her to the end of their surging crest.
He held her in his arms and needed to find the right words. He nuzzled her neck, thinking desperately. At the very least she should know she would be taken care of if he didn’t come back. “Candice,” he whispered softly. “I want you to know you don’t have to worry.”
She didn’t answer. Because she still had her back to him, he didn’t know what her expression was. He ran his hands over the firm curve of her belly, then up to her breast. “If I don’t come back, Cochise will see that you return to the High C.”
There was still no answer.
He sighed. Did she even care at all about him?
Or was it only the pleasure he could give her?
His thumb touched her jaw and stroked it idly.
Tonight he would keep her in his arms all night, and make love to her again and again.
It was such a small yet such a large token.
His thumb moved higher, then stopped, paralyzed. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
“Ya-tethla?” Then, realizing he’d spoken in Apache, he said softly, “What’s the matter, shijii?”
She shook her head wordlessly.
He turned her over despite her attempts to remain facing away from him, and peered at her face. The dying fire not far from them shed little light. He tasted the salty tears with his mouth, kissing them away.
“Love me again, Jack,” she said brokenly.