There were no longer twenty Indians, but hundreds, and she had no idea where she was running, but she heard Harris cry “Cochise!” although it didn’t register. There was no escape—there were Indians everywhere.
She stumbled between racing, plunging horses and warriors and fell to her knees, her breath coming in gasps, before she realized some of the Indians were fighting each other. And then she saw the Apache riding at her, his lance poised, a second from running her through. She froze, still on her knees, clutching the gun tightly in her hand, hiding it in her skirt. Time stood still. He came closer and closer. It was like a dream, in slow motion. And still closer. He was upon her. She could make out his harsh features. She could see his eyes, and the jagged design of the red and white paint. She could see sweat on his brow. She raised the gun steadily.
Before she even fired, the warrior collapsed on his pony’s back and tumbled to the ground, shot from behind.
Then everything happened so fast it was a blur. The person who had shot the warrior was another Apache on a big bay and he just kept on coming at a gallop. He was a blur of bronzed, gleaming flesh and flying black hair, and he wore no warpaint. She thought he was going to run her down. Before she could move out of the way the stallion veered, and she was suddenly being lifted effortlessly, placed in front of the warrior on top of his mount, at a dead gallop. She twisted to fight, raising the derringer she still held.
The Apache grabbed her wrist so hard that she dropped the gun. She looked into black, unreadable eyes, and then he was shoving her off the big bay stallion, onto the ground, where Candice fell to her knees, panting. He reined in abruptly. Candice gazed up at him, waiting for him to kill her. His horse moved restlessly as he sat staring down at her, and she became aware of many things at once—the sudden silence of the canyon except for the sound of creaking leather, the coach that wasn’t far from her, the near-naked, lean Indians ringing this man, and the fact that no one was wearing warpaint. The fighting had stopped.
“You will not be hurt,pindah,”the warrior said, in a slow, stilted speech, his bay prancing in place.
Slowly Candice got to her feet. She knew who this was—it could only be Cochise. Everyone knew Cochise was very tall and good-looking (it was something that seemed to amaze white people), but there was also no mistaking his aura of power. It explained why he and his warriors had stopped the attack on the stagecoach.
“You are very brave for apindahwoman,” he said, a smile touching his eyes.
She wondered if he would let her go—or if he would abduct her. “You’re Cochise.”
A breeze lifted his long, wild black mane, which grew to his shoulders. “You know me?”
She was completely mesmerized by him, unable to tear her gaze away. “Yes,” she said, then flushed. “No. I know of you. But I do know Niño Salvaje.”
He stared with obvious interest. “Ahh. A brave and fierce warrior. For a brave and fierce woman. Is he your man?”
She flushed again. “No. He saved my life also.
Cochise’s expression was enigmatic.
“We’re friends,” she added, feeling uncomfortable beneath his assessing gaze. “Thank you for taking me out of the fray and for saving my life.”
“Geronimo has an angry heart.”
Thinking that it had been that crazed, murderous renegade attacking them made Candice shudder.
“If the great burden I carry were not so heavy,” Cochise said, speaking very slowly as he chose his words with care, “I would take you as my third wife.”
Candice gasped in complete surprise. She stared, wide-eyed, frightened and speechless.
As if reading her thoughts, he laughed. “Do not fear me,ish’tia’nay. Perhaps, if Usen wills it, we will meet again.”
Candice watched him turn away and lead several hundred mounted warriors thundering back into the mountains ringing Apache Pass.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
They reached El Paso four days later. It was almost twilight when they pulled into the dry, arid town that was part adobe and part wood. Candice was exhausted, and followed Kincaid numbly from the coach, not paying attention when he led her past the shabby hotel.
The moment she was in the door of the establishment Kincaid had led her to, Candice gasped. She was in a whorehouse. She had always wondered what the interior of these houses must be like, and this one fulfilled some of her expectations. The salon just visible from the entry was garish in red velvet and silk, and the women lounging among men were in states of undress—scant costumes, sequined and feathered, that revealed entire lengths of leg and arm and nearly exposed entire breasts. Kincaid’s hold tightened warningly, and Candice could only stare as an older, statuesque woman approached.
Unlike the women in the salon, she was clad in a full-length, although daring, gown. Her shoulders and most of her bosom were bare, and the skirt split up the front to reveal a glimpse of long legs as she walked. She would probably be handsome, Candice thought—fascinated despite herself—without the rouge and painted lips, the heavily kohled eyes. Her hair was blond, lighter than Candice’s and piled high on her head. Brilliantes dazzled at her throat and ears.
“Virge,” she purred huskily, and they embraced without him releasing his hold on Candice.
“Lorna, you look very fine.” Kincaid smiled, his eyes caressing her openly.
She laughed, touched his cheek with the tip of one painted fingertip, and glanced at Candice. “What’s this?”
“I’ll explain,” Kincaid said, “later. We’re going to be staying awhile. First Candice needs a bath.”
Lorna looked at Kincaid, and Candice was puzzled over the gleam in her eves. “Take her up to the room at the end of the hall. Suzie’s old room. I’ll have Carla bring up hot water and a tub.”
