She didn’t hear the last, not really. She stepped away from him. “I can’t be your wife,” she cried. “Jack, are you insane? I can’t—oh, God! No one can find out about this!” she cried frantically.
His face turned expressionless, his voice cold. “Fine. I’ll take you back tomorrow.”
Candice watched him walk away, still dazed. She sank to the ground. She was shaking. It was happening too soon, being confronted with reality, with the future. She was considered married to him? Oh, God. If anyone found out …
She covered her face with her burning hands. She felt something like panic. She remembered the barbecue and the stares and the whispers.
She thought about Jack. A stabbing pain pierced her to her very soul. But now, now she had to face everything—including what she had become. No better than a whore. A lady did not willingly give herself to any man outside of marriage, especially not one who was half Indian. It didn’t matter that he was handsome and virile, and all she had ever wanted in a man. What mattered was what she had done, how she had acted, had fallen. The only way she could ever salvage her reputation and atone for her sins would be to marry a white man, become a dutiful wife, and confess all her sins.
She really didn’t want to leave Jack.
That, too, she had to face. It stabbed, it twisted, it wrenched, and it hurt. But it didn’t matter, because she had no choice. She had no choice but to forget everything that had happened between them. After all, she was not some Apache squaw—but Candice Marilynn Carter.
Why, then, thinking of Jack, did she feel so guilty?
He did not return to share theirgohwahthat night. Candice couldn’t sleep. She had been thinking—shamelessly—that they still had a few nights together, and even though it was wrong, she wanted more than his intimate touch. She wanted desperately to lie a few last times in his arms, her body entwined with his, his breath fanning her hair. She imagined him angrily stalking the riverbanks. She imagined him in Datiye’s arms. She knew that was not where he was tonight, but soon he would find another woman, and the thought sickened her even though she knew it had to be. Just as she had to find a husband—a white husband.
She was still awake when the first rays of dawn crept beneath the hide flap. Not long after, it opened and Jack ducked his head in. “I’m saddling the black. We’ll eat and leave.” He ducked out before she could even open her mouth.
She trembled. His face had been devoid of warmth—worse, his eyes were absolutely blank. She took a breath and pulled on her moccasins. She rebraided her hair, which had been left loose while she slept. Her hand fumbled over the headband he had given her, then she put it on with the earrings. She stepped outside.
Jack was already heating up the stew left over from last night, and Shozkay was with him. Candice wished Shozkay would leave so they could talk, but he didn’t. Instead he turned to look at her with dark, grim eyes. He spoke urgently to Jack in Apache, and Candice wished she could understand.
Jack replied in a monotone without looking up from what he was doing. Shozkay argued, angry. Finally he gave up and left.
Jack handed her a bowl of stew and bread made from corn and berries. She waited for him to look at her, acknowledge her, say something, but he didn’t. He squatted and ate quickly and efficiently. Candice had no appetite. “Jack? What did Shozkay want?”
Jack set his empty bowl aside, standing. “He wanted me to stay.”
She bit her lip. “Jack?”
He went into the gohwahand came out with all their things—the hides and blanket, his weapons and saddlebags. He dumped everything on the ground, and she watched as he began dismantling the shelter. She felt sick with heartache. She clutched her hands together.
“Take the pot and bowls down to the creek and wash them out,” he said without even glancing at her.
The frame fell to the ground.
Candice held back tears and picked up the items and started away. Her vision blurred. It was better this way, she decided emotionally. Better to make a clean break now than have even a few more days.
Of course she was lying to herself, and she knew it.
Luz was waiting back at the camp with Shozkay, and Datiye was there too, talking a mile a minute to Jack. Candice handed Luz the bowls and the pot, which they had borrowed, but she stared at Jack listening to Datiye. She was standing too close to him. She touched his arm, let her hand linger. Jack shrugged, spoke, and turned away.
Candice hated her.
He won’t have to look very far for another woman, she thought bitterly.
Luz embraced her fondly. Candice found herself blinking back more tears, then crying. “Usen guard you well, sister,” Luz said softly.
“Thank you,” Candice said, wiping her eyes. “Usen guard you too—God go with you.”
Shozkay and Jack looked at each other, then embraced. Jack had packed up what he wanted and left the rest for his brother. He swung up into the saddle, then dropped his foot from the stirrup, and held out a hand. This was all done impassively. Candice settled behind him, her heart wrenching again. At the touch of her breasts against his back, and her hands on his waist, he stiffened, and she almost gave in to the urge to weep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Get off.”
Below the ridge where they’d stopped, Candice could make out the walls and corrals and buildings of the High C, about a mile away. Her hands tightened on Jack’s waist.
