Maria came running out of the house, her arms wide, babbling an incoherent stream of Spanish. Candice was enfolded in her soft, ample frame, and the warmth felt so good she thought she might start crying all over again. “Are you all right,poquita?”Maria finally said, clutching her face.
Candice gave her a wan smile, about to say “Yes” when her glance flickered past Maria to the porch. A lean, dark man, impeccably dressed, was standing on the porch—staring at her.
She was seeing a ghost.
“Hello, Candice,” Virgil Kincaid said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Candice fainted, hitting the ground with a thud.
Maria screamed.
Kincaid came running off the porch and swept Candice into his arms.
“I’ll get some cool rags and whiskey,” Maria said. “You take her up to her room.”
Kincaid didn’t need to be told what to do. He took the stairs quickly, impatiently. He kicked the door shut behind him, dropping Candice on the bed, staring. Her face was white. Her lashes moved.
He slapped her face, not hard or roughly, but to get her to come to. She moaned. Maria came running in with a pitcher of water, rags, and whiskey. Kincaid stood back to let er minister to Candice. Maria wiped her face, and as Candice moaned again, she lifted her slightly and poured a trickle of whiskey down her throat. Candice started sputtering, and her eyes flew open. She looked directly at Kincaid. “Oh, God, you’re not dead.”
He smiled tightly.
Candice suddenly closed her eyes, flooded with relief. She wasn’t a murderess. She hadn’t killed him.
“Are you better,cara?”Maria asked tenderly.
“Yes.”
“I’ll leave you two alone then,” Maria said, beaming.
As she left, Candice sat upright—all relief vanishing as she realized Maria and everyone in the valley thought Kincaid was her husband. Oh, God! She went white again. “Did you … did you tell them?” Her voice was hoarse.
The bed shifted under his weight.
“Tell them what,cara?”He smiled unpleasantly. “That you tried to kill me? Or that you ran off with me and we never married—that what everyone believes to be true is all lies?”
Lies. Oh, God, so many lies. “Virgil, please.”
She sat up, trying to control the panic engulfing her.
He smiled a thin smile, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “I owe you, my dear.”
She tried to twist away from his touch, but his hand tightened cruelly around her face, and she couldn’t move. “I’m sorry,” she gasped.
“I’ll bet you are,” he snarled. “Sorry I’m alive?”
“Please.” She whimpered. “No, I’m glad, Virgil, glad you’re alive, I didn’t mean to shoot you, you have to understand!”
He studied her with a clenched jaw while Candice held her breath. “Did they rape you?”
She gasped. “Who?”
He grabbed her braid and pulled her head back. “Who? You were captured by Apaches. Did they?”
“No! They don’t rape women, they’re not like the Comanches. I was treated well. I mean I wasn’t beaten or anything.” She was babbling. “My captor thought I was rare, a prize. He was hoping to marry me off to someone in the tribe or many gifts.”
Virgil started to relax. “You look like some dirty, half-breed squaw.”
