He paused in the doorway. “What?”
“Do you think it will be okay? For us to stay here?”
“If Casey comes back, we’ll find another place.”
“No, I mean, after what happened.”
“I doubt anyone will think much of my killing a man who stole my wife. And Lorna doesn’t want that kind of trouble.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be.” He left.
She lay on her back and fought fresh tears. Was it only hours ago that he had been making love to her as if he really cared? How could she stay with this cold, angry man? And what were they doing? Was she supposed to live with him as his mistress? He may think they were married, but the Apache ritual meant nothing to her—or to society. And what was the alternative? A Christian marriage?
I do love him, was her only answer.
And she fell into an exhausted sleep.
The savory, mouth-watering aroma of a stew simmering awakened her around midafternoon. Candice opened her eyes and turned her head. The first thing she saw was Jack, shirtless, bending over the gleaming kettle, bringing a ladle to his lips. In the glow of the firelight his arms and back rippled, and his perfect profile was cast into vivid relief. Her heart clenched and she sat up.
He looked at her. “Feeling better?”
“Yes,” she said truthfully, smiling.
“Hungry?”
“Starved.”
And he smiled. It lit up his face and made her heartbeat quicken. Then he was all business, ladling out a dish and bringing it to her. When he squatted beside her to hand her the bowl, their gazes met. He was the one to look away first, breaking the intimate contact. Candice took the bowl, dismayed.
Jack stood. “I’m going to go hunting. If I’m not back by nightfall, don’t worry. Tomorrow I’ll trade for some chickens and a milk cow, and whatever else we need. Come spring I’ll round up a few wild longhorns. I can even build us a place outside of town. But we’ll stay the winter here—close to the doctor.”
Candice wondered who he wanted—her or the baby.
Somehow, she didn’t think it was herself.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Jack was not back by the next morning.
Lorna had returned Candice’s clothes, apparently motivated to do so by Jack, but everything seemed wildly inappropriate for the hovel they were living in. She slipped on her most casual cotton dress, and it was like a slap in the face. The careful stitching, lace trim, and bright blue were a startling contrast to the squalor of their home. Home. It was not a home, just a shack. She hated it. She could become very depressed there, especially if Jack kept on acting as if he hated her.
Looking at her pile of dresses, Candice had an inspiration. She knew just what the house needed—a woman’s homey touches, her touches. There was a needle in Jack’s saddlebags. She spent the morning making curtains in a cheerful yellow from two of her gowns, a cotton and a silk. There were only two windows, so it was not a huge chore, but she was already imagining a cranberry bedspread and cheerful floral tablecloth.
She trimmed the curtains with lace. She had nothing to hang them with, so she decided to borrow a hammer. If they were going to be spending the winter there, she might as well get to know her neighbors.
If only she had some money—they needed so many things. Inspired anew, she took two of her taffeta dresses and bundled them up. Surely someone would trade her soap, blankets, a hammer, and a few others things for them.
She was feeling positively cheerful when she stepped outside into the bright morning. A Mexican woman next door was washing her laundry in a big tub outside, stirring the clothes with a huge stick. Candice smiled, her bundle firmly under her arm, and called out a friendly greeting, starting over. The woman looked up, then looked back to what she was doing.
“Hello,” Candice said again. “Good morning. My name is Candice Car … Savage, and we’re neighbors.”
The woman ignored her.
Candice had a terrible suspicion. Her chin lifted, the smile faded. “Excuse me. We’re neighbors. I thought you might be interested in—”
The woman looked up and spat at Candice’s feet.“Puta. Salgate.”She spat again.
