Candice was awake, unable to sleep, staring up at the glittering stars, listening to every rustle of sage and mesquite, feeling every whisper of air. She shifted Christina, opening her blouse and bringing her to her breast. She wondered what time it was. After midnight, she guessed. She hadn’t dared to make a fire. She was afraid of Indians, other Apaches, whites, Jack. It would be the height of irony if he stumbled across them.
Close by, an owl hooted. Candice had been among the Apaches long enough to know that they would think it was some spirit haunting the earth. Despite herself, she shivered. It was cool out. Compared to the heat of the day, the night air seemed colder than it was. Christina finished and Candice tucked her into the crook of her arm, nestling back down. She wished she could fall asleep.
This was only their first night on the trail. There would probably be three more. Candice had kept the pony to a steady trot all day, stopping only to feed Christina and change her. Christina was a wonderful traveler. But, Candice supposed, it might be because she was still so young, not even a month old.
She finally fell asleep, until the brightness of the early-morning sun awoke her—that, and Christina gurgling against her side. Candice fed her, ate some jerky, nuts, and berries, then placed Christina in her cradleboard and slipped it onto her back. She had devised a buckskin flap over the headpiece when Christina was first born, to shade her from the sun. Her baby had a tawny complexion, shades darker than her own but lighter than Jack’s, and Jack’s sable hair. Candice was very relieved that she didn’t have a dark complexion to mark her Indian blood, so she would be spared the bigotry of society when she was old enough to understand.
Images of Jack tugged at her heart.
Don’t think about him, she told herself sternly, and mounted and set off.
They approached Dragoon Springs later that morning. They were actually following the Butterfield Overland Trail, although that stage, she knew, was no longer in service here. The Apache wars had made it too dangerous.
She watered the pony thoroughly, fed Christina again, and bathed her and her own face and chest with a wet cloth. She set Jack’s Stetson back on her head, and was about to put the cradleboard with her daughter on her back when her pony snorted, then neighed, making her look up.
Approaching from the direction she had come were riders—three of them.
Candice quickly reached for her rifle and drew it out of its scabbard. She laid it at her feet and put Christina on her back. She retrieved and cocked the rifle, holding it loosely but with a hint of menace in the crook of her arm.
Then she saw that the riders were soldiers and relief flooded her. And with it, hope. Her first thought was that maybe they would escort hex back to the High C.
The men pulled up, staring at her with surprise and interest. “Ma’am,” drawled a bulky, middle-age man with a sergeant’s stripes. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, Sergeant, thank you,” Candice said, holding her rifle casually. She became aware of her appearance—of her faded white blouse stretched too tautly over her swollen breasts, of the griminess of her brown skirt, her reddened hands, her sunburned nose.
“What are you doing out here alone, ma’am?”
“I’m on my way to the High C,” she began.
“Damn,” exclaimed a young soldier. “I thought that was her! Sarge! That’s Candice Carter!”
The sergeant’s gray eyes widened. “The one who eloped with Kincaid but returned with the breed that rides with Cochise?”
“The very one,” the young man exclaimed.
Candice tensed. She felt the change in the atmosphere immediately, as slightly perceptible as it was. The soldiers’ manner went from polite concern to tense, perhaps even hostile and lascivious interest.
“Sarge,” the young man said hastily. “I heard that the breed killed Kincaid in El Paso—over her.”
They stared.
Candice felt sweat dripping down her temple.
“I dunno about Kincaid,” the sergeant finally said. “But Jack Savage is wanted for the murder of two men in El Paso in April.”
Candice remembered how the mob had come after them when Jack had returned to her in the spring. Oh, God. It wouldn’t matter to these soldiers that Jack had been protecting her and himself—that it had been self-defense.
“And she’s got a kid,” the same man said, nudging his horse forward. “Apapoose.”He grinned. “Looks like a half-breed.”
Candice raised her rifle, whirling on the man, who was not much older than she was, but whose intent was questionable while his lust was not. “Stay back!”
He chuckled. “Little Injun whore’s got some spunk, Sarge! What do you say?”
“Relax, Ladd. Where are you coming from?” the sergeant asked harshly, eyes hard.
Candice thought quickly. But not quickly enough.
“Bet you she was with that breed. Look at the kid—in a cradleboard and buckskins. She must be coming from Cochise’s camp,” Ladd said shrewdly.
