“Yes, it does.”
“War isn’t fair,” Jack said. “That Shozkay was killed isn’t fair. There are worse things than your coming with me—your rightful husband.”
“Shozkay isdead?”
Jack turned his back to her and began tying on their saddlebags. “Yes.”
“Oh, God.” She stared at his rigid back, feeling him withdraw. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He didn’t turn and didn’t answer. Candice approached and laid her hand on the tense muscles of his spine. He quickly moved away—away from her touch. She stood there helplessly. They had never been intimate, except physically. Why now, when there were more walls between them than ever, did she expect him to open up to her, turn to her with his heavy need?
Now was not the time to bring it up, but when they stopped before dusk that night, Candice did. “Jack, if you wont take me to the High C, why won’t you consider letting the Apaches wage their war without you? You’re half white. You have a family to think of. We could go away, the three of us, go where no one knows us, where no one will call the baby names.”
He stared at her. “And leave my brother’s soul unavenged?”
She wanted to weep.
That night there was no need for Jack to keep guard. Candice curled up in the bedroll and began to feel warm as she watched him carefully put out the small fire they’d cooked over. She wondered if he would try to make love to her. Then she instantly chastised herself. Of course he wouldn’t—she was too heavily pregnant, and there was so much stiffness and anger between them—the bricks of insurmountable walls. She pretended to be sleeping when he crawled in beside her, but couldn’t fool herself. She wanted him. That was the only way they were close, the only time they were like one, the only time reality became irrelevant. She ached for him desperately.
His hand settled on her hip, stroking slightly, and desire filled her groin. When she didn’t move away she felt him press against her, and there was no mistaking the throbbing erection against her buttocks. His hand moved over the swell of her belly, so very softly.
“Candice,” he said huskily, his voice heavy with need.
“Jack.” She moaned, arching back into him.
He held her buttocks tight against his manhood with a long, slow groan. She felt his mouth against her hair. He began rubbing his cheek there. She turned her face toward him, rolling onto her back, and his mouth came down on hers.
She wished he would tell her again that he loved her.
He didn’t.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, his hands splaying over her full breasts, rubbing her large nipples into erectness.
“You won’t.”
“You’re so beautiful.”
“I’ve become a cow.”
“A beautiful cow,” he said, smiling slightly, and she laughed just before he abruptly bared a breast and took the peak in his mouth. Then her laughter died.
It had been so long for both of them. Jack rolled onto his back, rolling her with him, on top of him. His hands were at her skirts, shifting them out of the way, and at his pants. She felt him the moment he was freed, straining against her bare thigh. His finger slid into her and Candice arched, dazed and mindless and ready for him. “Please.”
“Yes, darling, yes.”
He lifted her hips, then pulled her down onto him. They gasped together at the sensation of their tight, throbbing fit. His hold on her hips never ceased as he instructed her in a rapid rhythm, until Candice exploded, collapsing in Jack’s arms. Jack’s own cry was harsh and guttural in the night.
Afterward he held her tenderly in his arms until she fell asleep.
They rode for three more days at an easy pace, keeping an apparent truce between them although nothing was settled. And at night there was always the bittersweet lovemaking. Candice began to take an interest in being outdoors and riding again. She was also curious, and Jack soon told her what had happened at Apache Pass and the raid down the Sonoita Valley. He edited the version as he told it. Since the attack, he had tried not to think about what had happened at Warden’s ranch. Now he remembered the woman. He kept seeing her, terror etched on her face as she raised the rifle at him. His own gun’s report, and the blood blossoming on her chest. He felt sick.
“Is something wrong, Jack?”
“The Warden boy’s real father is a Coyotero,” he told her, changing the subject. “From one of the White Mountain bands. Cochise found out about two weeks ago. The boy’s father kidnapped him and has no intention of giving his son back, and I can’t say I blame him.” But he couldn’t get the woman’s image out of his mind. He would never forget her face, her look of fear. He would never forget that he had killed her.
“Was it really Cochise’s wife and son that the troops had taken prisoner, Jack?”
“Yes.”
