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.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Jack was still too weak to get up, but he insisted on trying to feed himself. The fever, which had lasted three days, had broken the day before yesterday. He didn’t remember the ride back. Someone—Nahilzay, Datiye said—had tied him to his saddle. By the time they arrived back at the stronghold he was unconscious from loss of blood. Today was the best he’d felt since the fever, and he wanted to get up, but Datiye wouldn’t let him.
He was in thegohwah, on a bed of hides and blankets, one wool blanket pulled up to his hips. The bandage was clean, changed yesterday, and free of blood. The wound was healing nicely, Datiye said, but the next time she changed the bandage he would inspect it himself, to make sure. Propped against his saddle, he spooned the stew made of beans and squirrel into his mouth. He was ravenous. “Who got the squirrel?” he asked.
“The great chief sent it, and more.” Datiye smiled. “You bring me much pride. Your fearless bravery and desire to avenge the hangings is well known.”
“I didn’t kill Warden.”
“You were first inside, alone.” Her eyes shone. “Both the chief and his most trusted warrior spoke of your bravery, in the dance.”
Jack didn’t smile, but he was pleased. She was referring to the victory celebration that followed a successful battle or raid. After the shaman thanked the spirits, each warrior got up in turn to dance out the story of the battle as they had seen it, in pantomime. Datiye told him that Cochise and Nahilzay had included what he had done in their renditions.
