Candice was not reassured. She was worried, yes, but not enough so to take her mind off the more imminent problem—how to ride in front of him without being physically intimate. He had one arm wrapped around her waist, a firm anchor, and it supported the underside of her breasts. That made her very nervous. It was also making her nipples hard and sensitive. Or maybe it was his hard chest against her back, because it was impossible to keep distance between them no matter how rigidly she sat. She shifted her bottom, meaning to get closer to the pommel. The morion only set her higher on rock-hard thighs.
“Just relax,” he growled.
She, of course, went stiffer. And her face flamed. She was very aware of his body behind hers, touching hers. She could even smell him—it was a distinctive scent and, if she was honest, not at all unpleasant. In fact, her heart was thudding a bit too quickly and, for some reason, her pants had become tight, making her uncomfortable.
He pulled the stallion up and slid off, pulling her down abruptly, one arm around her. “Be quiet and just do as I do.”
She nodded. She knew he didn’t trust her, or else he’d leave her alone with the stallion while he went to investigate. And he was right. If she had the opportunity, she would be on his horse and galloping across the desert in one split second. In a semicrouch, his arm holding her clamped to his side, he pulled her toward a thick stand of saguaro and boulders. Then he pushed her into a crevice of rock, growling, “Stay there.”
Candice watched him duck away. She could hear male voices and laughter. She hesitated. It was just possible the men were hands from one of her neighbor’s ranches, or, please God even better, troops. She followed him.
He was on his stomach, peering down an incline, shielded by thick octillo clusters. Candice got to her hands and knees and scrambled down to join him. She was ten yards away when he whipped onto his back, drawing one Colt so fast she wouldn’t have believed it if she didn’t see the gun pointing right at her chest. She cried out, freezing.
He lunged up and grabbed her, throwing her down.
She gasped for breath.
He reared up and started firing. Three fast, rapid shots in near succession. Then a long pause, and Candice twisted to stare and saw him taking a long, careful bead even as she heard the galloping beat of a departing rider. He fired. The horse’s stride never faltered. Jack straightened to his full height and began scrambling down the slope.
Candice sat up, wiping sweat out of her eyes. She stood cautiously and looked down the slope, then cried out. Three bodies lay sprawled in blood on the ground. Three riderless horses were cantering away. The dead men—and she did not for a minute doubt they were dead—were cowboys clad in thick chaps and range clothes. She cringed at the sight of the cold-blooded murders. Then she heard another shot.
He was standing over an Indian who was staked out Apache style and sheathing his gun. Candice saw the red flower blossoming on the Indian’s chest and knew Savage had killed him too, and she felt sick. For a minute she just stood there, fighting nausea, barely aware of how he was standing motionless, his head hanging. Then he straightened, turned slightly, raised his eyes and looked at her. The timing was perfect. Candice was already falling to her knees and retching.
She stayed on her hands and knees for a long time after the heaves had stopped, trembling and numb. She realized she was clawing the dirt, and she sat back on her heels, taking a few deep breaths. That was when she thought she heard a man’s moan. She looked up.
Savage was wrapping the Indian in his buckskin bedroll. Candice watched him and was stunned. He folded the blanket over the brave’s face and body as if he were bundling up a fragile infant. Then she heard the moan again, and saw one of the prostrate cowboys move his head. She was standing without realizing it.
Jack whistled, a sharp sound, and the black came galloping down the slope. He lifted the corpse and settled it on the saddle, speaking softly as the animal shied uneasily. Candice ran down the slope, falling, skinning her palm and running again. She ran past Jack, who was tying the corpse to the saddle. She stopped and knelt. The man’s eyes were open. His face was white and wet with sweat. She saw that he had been gut-shot. She knew enough to know that it was fatal—and that he would take hours and hours to die. She rose. “Mr. Savage! He’s alive!”
His back was to her, and he continued to tie the Indian corpse to the saddle, as if he hadn’t heard.
“Mr. Savage! He’s alive! This man is still alive!”
“Help me,” the man gasped, a barely audible whisper.
Candice was frantic. Jack hadn’t turned, hadn’t even responded or given any sign that he had heard. She ran to him and grabbed his arm. “He’s alive! Are you deaf? For God’s sake—”
“I know,” he said tonelessly, not glancing at her.
She dropped his arm, stunned, and backed away. “He’s gut-shot,” she croaked.
No response. He patted the stallion.
“Are you just going to let him die like an animal?”
Jack turned to face her. “He is an animal.”
Her eyes widened.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“What kind of man are you?” She gasped. “You’re the animal, not that poor dying man—you killed his friends in cold blood …”
“Let’s go,” he said again. Taking the stallion’s reins, he started walking away.
“You can’t leave him like that!” Candice screamed, running after him and grabbing his arm and hanging on to it, pulling him up short. To her total shock, he threw her off violently, and she fell on her backside onto the ground. He took one stride toward her, and she cringed, half frightened, half furious. He towered over her, his words low and enraged. “The Apache was only a boy,” he rasped. “Fourteen winters, that’s all. A Child of the Water—a novice in training to be a warrior. His status is sacred, special, protected. He was left behind by the raiding party so he wouldn’t be put in danger, because he is unproven and untried. Do you know what they were doing to him?”
Candice didn’t say a word.
