She rose and turned to move away, back across the fire. He grabbed a hank of her long hair, stopping her. “No,inlgashi,”he said softly. He gestured to where he had been lying on the ground. Her eyes went wide.
He used her hair as a leash, pulling her close then pushing her down. He slipped down behind her, forcing her onto her back and throwing one arm over her waist. She was holding her breath—not that he cared—and he closed his eyes. Sleep, of course, would not come.
He would have to take her back.
He imagined the reception she would receive and almost felt sorry for her. But he cut off his sympathy. There would be a lot of talk about her being rescued by a “breed.” He couldn’t spend his energy worrying about that—better to worry about his own reception. Of course, he wasn’t going to harm her, but that didn’t necessarily preclude danger to himself from the bigoted whites. He didn’t feel like facing an angry lynch mob.
Carter, however, did have a reputation as an outstandingly fair man. And there had been little trouble between the Carters and the Apaches. Just the usual winter raiding, which was actually for subsistence needs—an occasional, minor fray. Carter seemed to understand that the theft of a few head of cattle every year was not war, but a way of life for the Apache.
He decided he could risk bringing her home.
Home. He was close to his own home, and after three years his feelings were mixed and strong. On the one hand, he thought of seeing his mother again, his brother, his clan. God, it had been so long, and he had missed them.
On the other hand, he had decided to leave three years ago, and going back would only stir up old feelings. He had become used to the path of his life—one he walked alone, torn between the two cultures.
He had left after what was, for him, his last raid as an Apache warrior. He had been twenty-one years of age. A small raiding party of twelve warriors had gone south, looking for cattle to see them through the hard winter months. They had found three steers bearing Pete Kitchen’s brand and had slaughtered them on the spot. They were butchering the carcasses when a dozen of Kitchen’s hands had ridden up, taking them by surprise. A full-scale battle had ensued.
And he had killed his first white man.
They had been in hand-to-hand combat, and afterward—the man’s blood on his hands and face—Jack had gotten sick, retching violently. No one had seen, no one had known. That didn’t matter. He knew.
He knew he could not ride with the people who had raised him and war on the people whose blood also ran in his veins. That night he told his wife, Datiye, that he was leaving—and he hadn’t been back since.
The first town he had come to was Tucson. He had been called a breed right to his face, and he had pulled his knife furiously on that man—a white—and flipped him, prepared to cut his-throat. Usen, the Life Giver, did not preach “love thine enemy” like the white God, and his instinct was to kill. He was alone, in hostile territory. He realized this in time and caution intervened. He released the man.
He had gone to the saloon—a one-room adobe shack with straw on the floor, a few broken stools and tables. An old Spanish woman refused to serve him whiskey until the hard look in his eyes compelled her to change her mind. Later he rode out—and hadn’t been back since.
The adjustment had been slow and painful. He had left the Apache, yet the white people shunned him as a half-breed. Jack had always been proud of who he was—one of the fiercest warriors in the Territory—and now his pride became a hard and angry mantle that he wore defiantly in the white man’s world.
One day in that first year he was pushed too far. He was referred to as a savage, almost but not quite to his face, and it was one time too many. The man who had defamed him quickly repented—at the feel of Jack’s knife against his throat. Moments later the saloon girl he was with asked him his name. With an amused, mocking smile, he had said, “Savage. Jack Savage.” And he had been going by that name ever since.
As he drifted he gradually changed a few details of his dress—wearing a Stetson hat, exchanging the buckskin shirt for a cotton one, even trying to wear the white man’s boots, as painful as they were. Without the moccasins with their distinctive Apache style, he found he encountered less bigotry and hostility.
He rode the Chisolm Trail, joining the cattle drive. He was a man, with social needs. At first he did not find any camaraderie among the crew. Their ostracism was blatant, as was their fear. Jack knew nothing about punching cows, yet he learned with fierce determination, and quickly. He worked twice as hard as any man there. Shortly after his first week on the drive, as he came in exhausted, covered with dust, slipping off his mount at the edge of the camp, prepared to eat alone, the ramrod came up to him and handed him a mug of coffee. It was a turning point. He had gained the boss’s respect, and that of the crew followed. While he hadn’t exactly made friends, and nor did he expect to, he was finally accepted.
In Texas he did a brief stint as a scout for the army in their campaign against the Comanche. It was not uncommon for Indians of other tribes to be used as scouts against their traditional enemies. Word of Jack’s skill as a tracker spread rapidly. He was working closely with an Irish sergeant named O’Malley. O’Malley’s feelings for him changed instantly one day when they encountered a war party and became engaged in vicious combat. Jack fought tirelessly at O’Malley’s side, then risked his life to drag a young, wounded soldier to safety, getting shot himself in the thigh in the process. After that, O’Malley became his first real white friend—they shared many evenings together in the local cantina—and Jack’s reputation soared throughout the fort and among all the troops.
Although he was living somewhat successfully on the fringes of the white man’s world, he was always aware that the respect he gained for his skill and courage and intelligence was always accompanied by uncertainty and fear.
He might have white blood flowing in his veins, but it meant little to anyone except himself. To the world he was an Apache breed. Just like he was to this girl, Candice Carter. He turned his head to look at her.
She had fallen asleep. Her full lips were parted slightly, and a graphic image rose to mind-his mouth on hers, thrusting his tongue into her while he drove himself deep and thick and urgently inside her. His loins stirred again. It had been too long.
But he could never touch her.
They would hang him if he even tried.
CHAPTER SIX
She blinked into bright sunlight. Candice was instantly aware that she was alone—that he was gone. She sat abruptly upright, blanket in hand, her heart thudding with the possibilities.
“Good morning.”
She gasped, twisting to see him near a stand of ancient saguaro. Then, noticing where his hands were—fastening the drawstring of his pants—she went red. And looked away.How am I going to escape?
“Are you hungry?”
She looked at him again, and to her relief, he was finished with what he had been doing, standing very relaxed not far from her. In the bright desert light, she was struck by many things at once. His hair wasn’t black, but a rich, dark sable; in the sun it glinted with warm highlights. His eyes were paler than any she’d ever seen, a silvery gray. His features were even finer by daylight—as if sculpted by an artist. His torso, still bare, was just as carefully sculpted, but with hard sinew, not bone. When he shifted, his wet muscles gleamed and rippled. The buckskin pants were indecently soft. They molded powerful, near-bulging thighs. They also cupped his prominent sex. If he wasn’t a half-breed he would be considered a stunning man. Candice glanced away. Her face was warm.
