A horrible scream split the air.
Candice froze, and then it was repeated. Every hair on her body curled up, as she realized, horrified, that the sound was human. The dancers had stopped and were listening intently. Another scream, even worse than before, came curdling through the night.
The braves started dancing again jubilantly.
Three more screams, each worse than the one before, sounded, making Candice sick, terrifying her into immobility. She lay at the entrance to thegohwahcompletely frozen, afraid even to shiver lest she attract attention. What were they doing to the poor vaquero? And would she be next?
Perhaps an hour later, there was light as someone entered with a torch. It was the square-faced squaw. She placed a bowl and pitcher in front of Candice, both woven of straw and cane, and Candice drank desperately. Then she picked up the bowl and attacked it with her fingers. It was tasteless, almost bitter, some kind of cornmeal. She didn’t care. When she had finished, she looked up to see the squaw staring at her with complete and undisguised animosity. Candice shrank away.
The squaw fingered the neckline of her dress, which was covered with dust and dirt, barely blue anymore. She caressed some ribbons at the neckline, at the cuffs. Then she said something. It was an order.
“What?” Candice felt fear rising up in her.
The woman gestured and spoke rapidly.
“What? I don’t understand.”
The squaw tugged at the dress. Candice suddenly understood. With fumbling fingers, she began to unbutton it. It took her a very long time, but she stepped out of it, wondering why the woman wanted it. The woman gestured at her chemise, which was the only garment between her pantalets and the rest of the world. Candice cringed. The squaw grew angry. Candice pulled it over her head.
The squaw wasn’t satisfied—she wanted her underwear too. Sick, humiliated, feeling beaten, Candice pulled off the drawers, hugging herself modestly. The squaw looked at her sharply. Candice covered her breasts with her arms, drawing her knees up. The squaw yanked her arms down and stared at her body assessingly, rudely. Then she stood abruptly and left.
Candice found a blanket on the bed of hides and wrapped it around her. She sank back down, closing her eyes. Another intruder made her jerk them open. It was her captor.
He grabbed her hand, just missing her bruised wrist, and Candice was pulled to her feet, still clutching the blanket, suddenly realizing that he was drunk. He didn’t stagger, or even totter, but she could smell the whiskey on his breath. He was smiling as he pulled her out of thegohwah. To her horror, she saw that a group of braves, all similarly inebriated, were waiting in a semicircle. He pushed her into their midst.
They stared at her and started talking, grinning, laughing. They were evidently awed by the mass of blond hair, and they touched it repeatedly, sometimes pulling it and hurting her. Suddenly her captor yanked the blanket out of her grasp, and Candice stood there, naked and frightened. She thrust her chin up, gritting her teeth, fighting her first impulse—to try to shield herself—knowing it would be ridiculous. The men had stopped talking and were staring excitedly. Her captor was grinning from ear to ear, and it struck Candice that she was his new possession, and he was showing her off. They all began to speak eagerly, her captor laughing and gesturing, clearly refusing their requests, but happily.
Suddenly they were all silent. Candice looked past her captor at a tall, silent Apache who had materialized out of nowhere. He stared at her, and Candice stared back, hiding her fear and trying to look bold. He was very handsome, as tall as Savage, but leaner, and obviously a man of power. Maybe he could help her. But then he looked past her face, his eyes roving her body, lingering on her breasts, on her womanhood. Candice stood straight and still. Somehow she sensed she would be better off if this man would take her away from her captor.
He spoke quietly, softly, to her captor, who listened intently, then spoke back shortly. They talked for a few more minutes, the handsome Apache becoming persuasive, her captor growing thick with pride, haughty in his replies. Finally the handsome Apache walked over to her.
“You belong to Hayilkah,” he said, in heavily accented English. Candice gaped. “I have suggested you are too rare to hurt and my words carry weight. If you obey and work hard, he will not beat you. Someday you may even choose a husband and become one of us.” He turned.
“Wait,” Candice called. “Please, wait!”
He stopped, turning back to her.
“Please, please help me,” she pleaded.
“I cannot help you,” he said with pity. “You belong to Hayilkah. Only you may help yourself. You are his prize. He can do with you as he wishes. He can keep you or give you away, or beat you if you disobey.”
Candice’s heart was pounding painfully. The tall Apache walked away. The other Indians were dispersing. Her captor, Hayilkah, grabbed her wrist, causing Candice to cry out in pain. She wasn’t aware of it, but Shozkay stopped and looked back, watching, as Hayilkah shoved Candice back into thegohwah, following her in.
To Candice’s horror, he dropped the flap closed behind him. She moved as far away as she could, ducking to stand upright. He stared at her lewdly, assessingly, then spoke to her, but she could not understand. He gestured to her and to the bed of hides.
“No!” Candice spat, suddenly understanding and forgetting everything the tall Apache had said.He was going to rape her.
He frowned. With one quick movement he pulled her body against his. Candice found the strength to struggle, but it was useless. His arms were like iron, holding her still, one massive hand pawing her roughly, pausing over her nipples, hurting her. She whimpered in pain. He threw her down and lowered his heavy body on hers. Candice tried to push him off, but his sheer weight pinned her down, and he ignored her pounding fists. He separated her thighs with his own, and she could feel his shaft stabbing her through the breech-cloth. She raked his back with her nails.
He smacked her across the face.
Candice’s head hit the ground with such impact that she saw an explosion of bright lights. Her face was throbbing, and when her vision cleared, she became aware of what the man was doing to her. He had thrust a finger into her and was exploring her insides. She was overwhelmed with fear, terror, and complete revulsion. He jammed his finger in again and again, so deeply that she thought she would faint from the pain. And then his plunging hand stilled and he said something to her. He was pleased.
Candice trembled and fought her terror and kept her eyes shut tightly, waiting for him to rip off the breechcloth and rape her. Instead, she felt his awful fingers violating her again, thrusting against her maidenhood, making a wave of nausea well up in her.
The fingers were withdrawn. Candice tensed, waited, and heard a grunt. She dared to open her eyes, to see him kneeling there, his face contorted, and then she felt his seed spraying over her thighs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
