“Lots of news. You look tired, Candice. How about inviting me in for a cup of coffee?”
She smiled wearily. “Of course. I see you’ve brought me some laundry.”
He smiled too. “Sure thing.”
Candice wasn’t afraid of Henry Lewis, not like some of the other soldiers who brought her laundry. He was from New York, the third son of an upper-class merchant family. He was young, well educated, but just plain starved for a white woman. She knew he hated the army and would leave the instant his tour was over. She didn’t blame him.
As she poured coffee, Henry unfolded a square of linen, revealing fresh, still-warm pastries. Candice began to salivate. She was always hungry these days, and never had time to make something sweet. He saw her expression and laughed. “Oh, Henry,” she said, turning away to get some plates. She had the insane urge to cry again.
“You work too hard,” he said when she sat, taking one of her callused hands in his.
Candice gently withdrew it. She smiled slightly but didn’t answer. “Tell me about Apache Pass.”
“Good news,” Henry told her, his face lightening. “Cochise’s rancheria has been burned to the ground.”
Candice went white and felt faint.Jack.
“Candice? Are you all right?”
She closed her eyes and hung on to the table. Please, God, no. I love him, I do, let him be all right. She opened her eyes and blinked through tears. “What happened?
“Troops from Fort Breckenridge made it through. Two companies of dragoons under the command of Lieutenant Morris. It was real quiet. Turns out the ranchería had been abandoned …”
Candice didn’t hear any more. Abandoned.Thank God. “Abandoned? They were gone? The Apaches were gone?”
“Every last one. What we did find was three badly mutilated bodies. Poor bastards,” he said, his face darkening.
Candice was too relieved that the Apaches had deserted the rancheria before it was burned to think of the American prisoners who’d been murdered. Henry continued. “Oury identified one of the corpses as the Stationkeeper, Wallace, from his gold teeth. They hanged all the Indian prisoners, including three Coyoteros they’d run into on their way to the pass. Except for the squaw and the boy, who were taken to Fort Buchanan. They hanged them over the graves of the dead men.” He paused, sipping. “Three of the hanged Apaches were related to Cochise, or so it’s said. They also say the squaw and boy are his.”
Candice couldn’t eat, and she couldn’t drink. The enormity of what had happened sank in. She raised her eyes to Henry’s. “There won’t be any turning back now, will there?”
I doubt it,” Henry said. “Looks like we’re in the middle of a damn war with the Apaches.”
Later, at the door, Henry took her hand and squeezed it, looking into her eyes with unmistakable urgency. “Candice,” he said, his tone too hoarse.
“Thank you for bringing me the news,” Candice said politely. He didn’t release her hand.
“Candice—he’s gone.” It was a statement and question all at once.
Instantly Candice froze and removed her hand from his. “I’m tired, Henry, it’s been a long day and I’ve still got a dozen things to do before dark.”
He stared at her for one more moment with obvious longing. “You deserve better,” he finally said. “Better than a husband who’d leave you here, like this, alone. Better than a ha—”
“Don’t you dare say it,” Candice warned. “Good-bye, Henry. Your laundry will be ready in three days, if the weather holds.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it.
Candice closed the door and leaned against it, waiting until she heard him riding out. All she could think of was Jack. It was all she could think of the entire time Henry had been there, and the visit had seemed interminable. Jack was riding with the Apaches. Was he holed up in some secret canyon, preparing for another strike against the white man? Or was he ambushing some innocent wagon train, right now? Was he all right? Even if he wanted to come see her, how could he do so now? God only knew where he was—and how far away.
She closed her eyes and prayed for his safety.
Then she went out to finish the laundry.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Scouts had been left behind when the Apaches abandoned the camp in Goodwin Canyon for Cochise’s eastern stronghold deep in the Chiricahua Mountains. One returned with grim but not unexpected news of the hangings. Jack had ridden out with Cochise and a dozen other warriors to cut down and bury the bodies. There was little danger, for they knew the troops and passengers had all left the pass.
The six bodies swung gently in a whispering winter breeze beneath a huge oak, over the fresh graves of the three Americans. The party approached, and they came close enough to make out the fact that the bodies looked untouched except for their broken necks. Jack’s glance swept over the six Apaches, grimly, sadly, then his gaze was drawn like a bolt to the third man.
