Hayilkah’s fever lasted ten days.
On the eleventh day it broke, and everyone knew he would live.
Jack skipped a stone across the creek. There was a constricting tightness in his chest, as if he were wearing an iron band. For a while, it had seemed as if he and Candice would never have to face the future—their future.
After that one terrible time, they had avoided any and all conversation that might lead to a repetition of what had happened. Candice never again pried into his past, and they avoided all topics relating to Tucson, the High C, and her family. They monitored Hayilkah’s progress daily, and Jack felt a guilt-laden relief each day that the fever lingered. Candice had spent some time with the women, doing women’s chores—mostly preparing food for the winter ahead—and Jack had spent time with the braves, hunting. They had spent their nights together in a frenzied kind of passion. As if there were no tomorrow.
They could no longer avoid facing the inevitable.
Jack’s obligation, his responsibility, his honor, demanded that he return Candice to her people and her home. He had married her in the first place to free her. He had never dreamed she would be a willing wife, never dreamed he could ever have a woman like her. Never, when he married her, had he thought they would discover such passion in each other’s arms, such intimacy. And, for Jack, such love.
He had known for a long time that he was in love with Candice, but it wasn’t something he had been able to face. Until now. And it hurt.
The pain of losing her was almost unbearable.
He thought: But things are different now. True, I married her to free her. But she comes to me willingly, eagerly. She is my wife. Idon’t have to give her up.
Of course, he could not force her to remain with him, it was not done. Women, too, had the right of divorce. Which meant, if he wanted to keep her, he would have to tell her about their marriage and give her a choice. Did he dare even hope she would want to stay with him?
He thought of all the moments they had shared, much of it spent in sex. Still, there were other times, when she cooked his food and mended his clothes and teased and flirted. He thought of how she had come to know all the children by name, and how she had played with the littlest ones, making them shriek with laughter. He imagined her with his children, and it was something he wanted more than he had ever wanted anything, other than her. Hope suddenly reared in his heart, hot and potent. He had a chance. He knew he did. He would will it that she would agree to stay with him as his wife.
Although there was a dark corner of fear within him, he shoved it away and hurried back to theirgohwahwith a light stride. He began thinking of the future. Of course they could not stay there—for all the same old reasons. But they could move away, far away, maybe to California, or the Oregon Territory. They could farm, ranch. They could homestead. Maybe she was already pregnant. Maybe next year, at this time, she would be nursing his son.
She was kneeling over a pot of stew, stirring it. She had become a good cook. She was wearing, as always, the feather headband he had made for her, her hair tied in one fat braid, which was very different from the Apache women’s style. He had made matching earrings for her, and they skimmed her cheeks as she leaned forward, shades of blue and red, silver and gold. She had yellow hair the color of sunshine, but she looked like a squaw—his squaw—and he smiled.
She looked up and beamed. “Jack, you’re just in time. Come here and taste this. Tell me if it needs more of that funny bark.”
He knelt and took her shoulders. “Candice, Hayilkah’s fever broke.”
Her expression of pleasure faded. “Oh.”
He lifted her to her feet, “We have to talk.”
Candice bit her lip, a gesture of nervousness he was now familiar with. Her navy eyes were wide and trained right on him. Her heart was pounding urgently. She felt icy despair. “I guess it’s time to go back,” she said, and wanted to die when she thought about her family’s reaction to her return. She closed her eyes, thinking of the ensuing scandal.
“Not necessarily,” he said quietly, watching her face.
Her eyes flashed. “It was one thing to be stuck here in this camp,” she said, “but I won’t be your mistress.”
His world started to crumble. “You’re my wife.”
She stared. “What?”
“I didn’t tell you because there was no point. But under Apache law we are man and wife.”
She stepped back from the impact of the statement. It was impossible! “I don’t believe you,” she said.
“It’s true. I offered for you and was accepted, we shared thegohwah—that’s about all there is to it.”
Candice’s hand went to her winging heart, as if to still it. His words sank in. She was his wife. “But I’m not Apache, Apache law means nothing to me.”
He watched her, his jaw flexing, as more of his world disintegrated.
She imagined the scandal. “Candice married that half-breed,” she could hear Millie Henderson saying. She went red. She imagined her father—stunned and disbelieving. She imagined Luke, Mark, and John-John—their cumulative shock. Having been in this camp for almost two weeks was bad enough, but actually to be married to an Apache.…
She lifted her shocked, frightened eyes to his.
He could barely breathe for the knot that was in his throat. His hand closed around her wrist desperately. “You’re my wife,” he said with a pleading note. “Whether you think so or not. You don’t have to go back. You can stay with me. We could go to California. Wherever you want. We—”
