Luz did not move nor speak, and Candice ate leftover stew and bread, absorbed in her thoughts. She was piqued that Jack had disappeared without a word, and even more irritated that he hadn’t even tried to kiss her last night or this morning. Not that she would let him touch her … but at least he could show some interest.
Datiye finally said, “If you help, it will go twice as fast.”
“Help?” She raised a brow. “I’m not a squaw, Datiye.” And she walked away.
She brought Luz food and tried to get her attention, knowing even as she did so that it was hopeless. After half an hour of futile efforts, she gave up. There was still no sign of Jack. She wandered through the camp.
Everywhere she went, conversation stopped, and men, women, and children stared, then started talking about her. Even though they spoke in Apache, she knew it was her they discussed. She stuck out like a sore thumb. With her hair so yellow gold, it was like walking around waving a flag and asking for attention.
She noticed that some of the squaws were clearly not Apache, but Mexican. The difference was in the shading of their dark skin tone, and in the texture of their hair, their features. Yet they acted just like squaws, clearly belonged to Apache braves, and had half-Apache children at their breasts or running underfoot.
Despite everything, she was interested in all the activity going on around her. It was hard to believe that these people were her enemy. But they were, and Candice didn’t forget it for a second. Since coming to the Territory eleven years ago, she had practically been reared on stories of Apache atrocities, which were a part of life in the Southwest. She had never actually encountered a hostile Apache party until her capture awhile back, but both her brothers had crossed paths with raiding parties on several occasions over the years. She herself had seen the little boy who had been scalped and shot. Mark wasn’t the only one to have suffered directly with the murder of his fiancée. Almost every neighbor had suffered in some way. She knew ranchers whose stock had been stolen and who had lost hired help in ensuing encounters. She knew men whose partners had been killed, scalped, or staked out. She even knew of children who’d disappeared, never to be seen again. Like Warden’s boy.
War. Shozkay’s death brought it home even more than Jack’s riding away. The New Mexico Territory was in a state of war, and her husband was on the wrong side, and now so was she. What ending could there possibly be for her, Jack, and their child, even if there weren’t Datiye to consider?
Had Jack actually killed white men in battle? She didn’t want even to consider that thought. It was too horrifying, too hopeless. Maybe there was no solution.
“So sad,” someone said. “So lost. Are things that bad, woman?”
Candice started and turned to see Cochise. His countenance was both questioning and sympathetic. She wondered how much she dared to say. His gaze searched and held hers, and she was unable to look away. “Yes,” she finally admitted.
“Let’s walk,” he said, gesturing, and they strolled ahead. “There is a beautiful place up ahead where the water falls over rocks and the sun shines through trees. It is a good place to think, to pray, to talk.” He smiled.
Candice smiled back. Instinctively she trusted this man. “I’m sorry about what happened to your people at Apache Pass,” she said sincerely.
He glanced at her. “An Apache never speaks with a double tongue. The white man always does.” He added, “Except for your man. His tongue is Apache, not white.”
Candice sighed. “Maybe to you,” she said.
Cochise looked at her seriously. “You accuse your husband of lying?”
She lifted her chin. “I do not know if he has lied to me or not,” she said. “But it is more likely than not that he did.”
“He could beat you for your words.”
“I would kill him.”
Cochise smiled. “Your spirit deserves his. Look, we are here.”
He was right, the spot was beautiful. A waterfall careened over a cliff, forming a pool in the basin below, then rushing on down the canyon. Tall pines provided a fragrant canopy, broken by streaks of dazzling sunlight. Above, a bird sang, and a faint breeze eddied Candice’s skirts about her boots.
“Do you wish to tell me what is wrong?”
She hesitated. “Would you help me?”
“It depends on what you ask.”
She sighed. “Is it true that Apache men don’t sleep with pregnant women?”
Cochise was truly startled, then he laughed. “You are angry your husband denies you his attentions?”
She blushed. “No, no. I am white. I do not share what is mine. If Jack has slept with Datiye since we were married …”
“I see.” He studied her. “Apache men do not sleep with pregnant women, no. Not once they know a child’s soul has been born.”
That was a relief, she thought.
“Whatever Niño Salvaje has told you, I would believe. He is a man of great honor. He tells lies to no man, no woman. His word is even good to his enemy. If that is so, it is surely good to the woman who holds his heart.”
