“I do not understand,” Datiye said, standing. “You love him. He loves you. Why do you leave?”
“Because of my daughter. Christina is not an Indian, and I won’t have her turned into a squaw.”
“He will come after you.”
“By the time he does, I will be safe at the ranch. He won’t be able to talk his way in. And, Datiye, Cochise must not know. No one must know. I want you to cover for me while I’m gone. If someone asks for me, which is unlikely, say I am bathing or something.”
Datiye nodded, smiling. “No one will notice your absence.”
“Don’t look so pleased,” Candice snapped.
“Why should I not be pleased? Our husband is Apache, more than white. He needs a woman who understands him. And I have given him a boy—a son. In time he will forget you. I will comfort him so that he does.”
“He will never love you,” Candice cried. She had an untimely vision of Datiye naked in Jack’s arms, and it made her sick. “Never. He loves me. He may take your body, but he will never give you his heart.” They stood and glared at each other.
“I would like to leave before dawn, so no one sees. I want to be outside the stronghold as the sun rises.”
“I will arrange everything.”
Candice watched Datiye walk away. She went and found a piece of charcoal and began to compose a note, one that she hoped would be cruel enough to deter him from coming after her.
She would no longer think about the man she was leaving.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
He leaned against the wall, straining to hear. Above, on the parapet, he could hear the sentry snoring. There was no sound from within the fort, which was a small area enclosed by ten-foot stone walls, ridiculously easy to scale. He could make out the forms of the few buildings within the walls. There were two long, low log buildings, which were the soldiers’ and noncommissioned officers’ quarters. Infantry and cavalry. Behind that was the mess hall; across the courtyard the adjutant’s office; and near that the larger residence of the commanding officer. To the right were five small, separate buildings housing the officers, including Lieutenant Morris. He had watched all day and had not only identified Morris, but his quarters as well
Knife in hand, he ran in a creeping position, keeping low to the ground and in the shadows. He slipped past the adjutant’s office, then two of the buildings for the commissioned officers. He didn’t pause at the third. He slipped through an open window to stand inside, adjusting to the even dimmer light within. Perspiration beaded his face. It was no cooler this far north than it was in the stronghold.
Without even a backward glance, for his ears were attuned to every sound around him, Jack stepped across the small chamber to the bed and leaned over the sleeping man, pressing the long blade of his knife against the lieutenant’s throat. Morris stirred, then suddenly his eyes flew open. He started to rise, his hands flinching prior to coming up to grasp for the knife. One word from Jack stopped him, that and the increasing pressure of the blade. “Don’t.”
Morris’s eyes bulged, but he lay so still, staring up at Jack, that he didn’t seem to be breathing. A long, hushed silence was finally broken. “Who are you?” Morris whispered.
“Niño Salvaje.”
“What do you want?” It was a croak.
Jack smiled grimly. “Your life.”
Morris gasped, and the movement of his throat made the knife cut skin. A dark, black stream appeared by the cutting edge of the blade. “Please,” Morris whispered desperately. Sweat gleaned on his forehead; his eyes teared. He was panting.
“For my brother,” Jack said. “For the hangings of six Apaches.” With one swift movement, he slit Morris’s throat from ear to ear. Blood gushed with a feint gurgling sound. He moved quickly, then, to the window and back out. Shortly after, he was on his stallion and riding back the way he had come.
This time he felt no sickness, no guilt. Retribution had been just in the Apache way. It had to be done. He could not have lived without avenging his brother’s death. His brother would have done the same for him.
His brother. His family was gone—Machu, Nalee, Shozkay, Luz. But now he had Candice and Christina. He felt a flooding relief. They were his family, his priority, and all he wanted was to provide for them in peace. Was that too much to ask?
There had been enough killing. He knew it wouldn’t stop, that it would go on and on, and only Usen might foresee how many years of bloodshed and warfare there would be. He should have known that he couldn’t participate in this war. He had exiled himself once before for the very same weakness—his inability to kill whites. In truth, it was not his fault. He was half white. But not completely. And there was a part of his heart and soul that was Apache, and it would always be that way.
He felt uplifted. Eager. To see his wife, take her and his daughter away. To start over. He knew he and Candice would be happy away from all this. Although things hadn’t been so bad, despite the war and Datiye. Candice had changed, he realized. Motherhood agreed with her. She had matured. They would go away, maybe to Texas, where there were few Apaches, or to California, and they would build a fine ranch, raise many children. His desire to see her and share his plans with her was overwhelming. He rode faster. In a day or two he would be back at the stronghold.
He tried not to think of his son. He loved him, there was no doubt, but the boy belonged with his mother. He would leave him behind because he had to, in fairness to Datiye. The decision was made, and he would not think about it.
He would think only about Candice and their future.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
Christina started to cry.
