CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Candice decided she would not bring up what was obviously an extremely sensitive topic for Jack again. She found him attheir gohwahdrinkingtiswin, alone and brooding. She was exhausted, still very disturbed, but no longer agitated about the slender squaw. It was what had happened to Judge Reinhart that held her attention—she hoped fervently that he was all right. She slipped into her usual place in Jack’s bedroll, thinking about Judge and his children, her husband (in Apache law), and their unborn child. It took her a long time to fall asleep.
She found him the next day packing his stallion’s foreleg with a poultice of mud and herbs. “What happened?” she asked, pretending their disagreement yesterday had not occurred.
“He’s a bit sore,” Jack said, apparently in the same mood as she. He patted the black and straightened. He smiled. “I never asked yesterday, but why are you running around in your petticoats?”
“To make Datiye jealous,” Candice said truthfully.
He burst into laughter. “Were you looking for me?” His gray eyes had become warm and tender.
“Yes, Jack, I need some buckskins.”
“For what?”
“To sew. For the baby.”
He was startled and pleased. “Can you sew clothing?”
“Of course. Will you get me the material?”
“You’ll have to tan the hides yourself.”
“Will you show me how?”
He smiled. “Gladly. I’ll go hunting today. For a doe. Doeskin is softest.”
Candice frowned. “Make sure she doesn’t have a fawn.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He came back empty-handed that day, but brought her a doe the next morning. Candice was filled with excitement and determination; the urge to prepare and provide for their baby, now that its arrival was imminent, propelled her relentlessly. She would prefer to see her child clad in fine clothing, but soft buckskin would do for now.
Jack spent the next two days showing Candice how to make buckskin cloth. He was still surprised and amused at her eagerness. And knowing the material was for their child warmed him thoroughly. He was truly enjoying helping her in her efforts over the past few days. They weren’t quarreling. They were working side by side, and it was more than companionable. It was the way it was supposed to be between a man and a wife, sharing their endeavors, working toward a mutual goal. He liked his wife’s company. He liked her determination, her pleasure at work performed well, her smile and her laughter. Most of all, he liked seeing her absorbed in a task that involved care for their unborn child.
In the afternoons, toward dusk, he took her up the canyon to a secluded glade by the creek where they bathed, played, and made love. At night she slept in his arms, and when he awoke from taunting nightmares—visions of the Warden woman’s face just before her death haunting him, or the sounds of battle and human death knells ringing in his brain—he would turn to her and take her urgently, before she was even awake—stroking her with a need to lose himself in her and escape guilt and torment. When her moans became audible he silenced them with hot, hard kisses. If anyone knew he was bedding his pregnant wife, no one gave any sign. He no longer cared. He needed her too much to care.
“Datiye, I want you to rest,” Jack said. His voice was firm. He took the basket, which was too heavy for a pregnant woman, away from her. “I mean it.”
“I am not tired,” she said, but he could see she was exhausted.
“Rest, now,” he said with a touch of anger. She was somewhere in her eighth month, and she was trying to do too much. It made him feel guilty. He knew it was because he gave all his attention to Candice, but, dammit, he hadn’t wanted a second wife. He was coping with a precarious situation in the best way he could. If he showed Datiye any more interest than he already did, he would jeopardize the tranquillity between him and Candice. That, he was not about to do. He was lucky, he knew, that she had accepted things as much as she had.
He watched Datiye waddle away and disappear into thegohwah. Then he turned as Candice came up to him. She was frowning, watching him. He gave her a smile.
“Jack, she’s so big. Has it ever occurred to you that her child isn’t yours?”
“It’s mine, Candice,” he said, more sharply than he meant to. “I inquired around of the men in the camp. From the time of her husband’s death, Datiye went with none of them—except me. A man who thought the child was his would be only too eager to claim it. Apaches love children.”
“It was just a thought,” she said contritely. Then, surprising him, she smiled and produced something from behind her back. She held up a buckskin dress. “What do you think?” she asked, a bit shyly.
He carefully kept himself from laughing. It was a good try. The sewing was awful. The stitches were large and childlike, but he pretended not to notice. “It’s fine,” he said. “But,shijii, don’t you think it’s a bit large? Or are you planning on birthing a twenty-pound baby?”
She was dismayed. “Is it too large? Well—he’ll grow into it.”
“That he will,” he said, chuckling. “I take it you’ve never seen a newborn baby?”
“Of course not. I was guessing as to the size.”
