No! All along, maybe not even consciously, she had wanted him to follow her, declare his undying love for her, and join her in making a new life, even if it meant leaving the Territory. But that wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t understand why he had come after her at Fort Buchanan almost a month ago if he wasn’t coming after her now.
The major had still been groggy when the two soldiers had burst in, after she had been inspired to call out for help. They’d gaped at her sitting naked, cuffed to the bed, their major on the floor, pants unbuttoned, the prisoner gone. Because the situation was so embarrassing, Corporal Tarnower had immediately been sent for and had taken charge. Both guards were threatened with court-martial if a word of what they’d seen got around. And, of course, because no one could think otherwise when she had been found naked and cuffed to the bed, Tarnower believed that Jack had knocked Bradley out with the paperweight, stolen his gun, forced Candice to free him, then cuffed her to the bed in malicious spite. Even Bradley believed it. The major, who had a serious concussion, had sent her home with his apologies two days later with a small military escort.
Candice knew she had been a sight in her worn, ragged clothes with her peeling nose. And the cradleboard with Christina on her back. There had been a long moment of absolute silence while her father, Luke, Mark, and John-John had stared in shocked speculation. Candice had lifted her chin high. She had calmly removed the cradleboard and picked up Christina, smiling at her baby—then she’d looked at Luke. “Don’t you want to say hello to your niece?”
He’d come out of his trance with a quick stride and a sudden smile to knuckle Christina’s cheek. Then he looked at Candice. “Hello, Sis. You look awful.”
“Thank you, Luke, I love you too.”
He kissed her cheek, smiling.
Her father reacted next, wanting to know where Kincaid was and if she was all right. She met his eye, then everyone else’s, as calmly as she could. “Kincaid is dead, honest-to-goodness dead.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Mark exclaimed, while her father and John-John came over to hug her and inspect the baby.
“Jack Savage killed Kincaid,” Candice stated. “For what he did to me. And this is our daughter.”
No one moved.
“Kincaid’s daughter?” Luke asked levelly.
“No, Jack’s daughter. He’s my husband.”
A shocked, incredulous silence ensued. Mark went white, then red. Her father stared. Luke began rolling a cigarette casually. John-John broke the silence. “I don’t believe it!”
“Jack is my husband and I love him, and if you love me, you’ll try to understand.”
“I’ll never understand,” Mark rasped. “You’d lie with that breed willingly?” He turned and stalked to the door.
“Mark,” Candice cried, “please try to understand. Jack didn’t kill Linda!”
He slammed the door behind him.
Candice looked up, starting to tremble. Christina started to whimper and move restlessly. Candice held her tighter. She looked at her father. She could see the shock in his eyes. He still hadn’t moved. “I’m very tired,” Candice said. “Pop? Do you want me to leave?”
John sat down heavily. “Candice, my God, do you know what you’ve done?”
“I love him,” she said simply. “He’s brave and strong and he’s got integrity of steel. Even if I never see him again, I’ll always love him. There’ll never be anyone else for me.”
John rubbed his face with his hands.
Luke came to her, taking her arm, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as his gaze went to his niece. “Why don’t you lie down upstairs,” he said softly. “I think everyone needs some time to adjust.”
“Will Mark ever adjust?” she heard herself ask bitterly.
He still hadn’t. Mark would give her long, condemning looks, but he wouldn’t talk to her. He never looked at Christina; he ignored his niece as if she didn’t exist. Her father seemed ten years older from the impact of the truth. Funny enough, John-John had eased back into their old relationship in the past few weeks, being too young to seriously hold a grudge. Once Candice even caught him lying on the floor and playing with Christina.
God bless Luke. If it wasn’t for him she might have gone insane from the condemnation of her father and Mark, the cowboys and their neighbors. She’d finally confided the entire story to him and ended up weeping in his arms while he held her close and stroked her hair. The only thing she didn’t tell him was that the preacher who had married them had not been real.
And every day she listened for the sentry’s shout, “Rider approaching,” waiting for Jack.
Troops had been sent out the night of his escape to find him. For the two days she had remained at the fort, she had been breathless with fear for his safety. But she had hoped, and even thought, that he had holed up somewhere in a cave full of cached supplies until he was stronger. Even then, once he set out for the stronghold, he would probably travel only by night, to protect himself both from farther burning and from the patrols. But what if an infection had set in? What if he’d had an accident in his condition—or died?
She could not give up hoping that he would come for her.
She had told him not to come, had told him he couldn’t give her and their child what they needed. Had he come to believe that ridiculous note with the passage of time? Or did he now understand, finally, how important it was to her to raise Christina as a white woman? As a lady? And had he chosen, irrevocably, the Apache over her and their child?
She tried to tell herself that it was for the best, but the words rang hopelessly hollow and false in her mind.
