The Darkest Heart Read online

  He hadn’t had a woman in a while, and just touching her made his groin tight and heavy.

  He bathed her, his hands shaking slightly, to his disgust, and forced more tea down her. He wrapped her in his bedroll—a sheet of buckskin that served as either spare blanket or loincloth. Then he made a small fire, watered and rubbed down and hobbled the stallion, then settled himself down with a tin mug of coffee.

  A white man’s habit.

  He smiled derisively, showing a glimmer of white, even teeth.

  And he looked up at the Santa Catalina Mountains, feeling their pull—the pull of the people, the pull of the only home he’d ever known.

  He sighed. It had been three long years since he had been back. The decision to leave hadn’t been easy—in fact, it had been the most pain-filled decision of his life.

  His name was Jack. He didn’t know his real last name and wasn’t sure where he had been born. He didn’t even know much about his real mother, just that she had been a squaw and had died when he was very young—before he had any memories of her. His father was a big, strapping, blond giant of a man, and Jack knew he had gotten most of his physical attributes from him. His earliest memory was standing ankle-deep in a freezing, rushing mountain stream, his hands chapped and numb from the icy cold, the metal pan sticking to his flesh. His father was a miner.

  He had never loved his father. He tried to do as he was told, to avoid getting hit. One slap from a man like that was enough to crack a bone. As long as he worked long and hard and occasionally had a few gold flakes to show, his father was pleased. When, upon occasion, his father sat down with a jug of whiskey, the little boy made sure to stay as far away from the cabin as possible. And that was probably what saved him.

  He was six or seven, and he was hiding in the woods, afraid of his father, who had been drinking steadily for days. He heard them first—the thundering of horses’ hooves. It could only be Indians, because the Mexican troops never strayed far from the Presidio at Tucson. He crept closer to see.

  He watched his father drunkenly antagonize the small group, then die defending his home. The little cabin went up in flames. The Indians proceeded to loot everything of value. Very, very afraid, the boy turned and ran.

  He didn’t know how the leader saw him, but he knew the instant the Indian on the big bay horse came galloping after him. He ran frantically into the trees, weaving through thick stands of juniper and pinyon. He fell, skinning fus hands and knees, and dared a look over his shoulder. The Indian, a tall young man with waist-length loose black hair, was leaping off his horse. He was clad only in thigh-high moccasins and a breechcloth, and he carried a knife. The boy got to his feet and started running.

  He was grabbed from behind and swung into the air.

  “Fucking savage!” Jack shouted, having learned the phrase from his father. “Let me go, damn fucking savage!”

  The Indian slung him over his shoulder.

  The boy sank his teeth as hard as he could into the man’s neck.

  The Indian never made a sound. His hand closed over the boy’s jaw, fingers digging in painfully, forcing his mouth open. The boy tasted sweat and grease and blood. He was thrown onto the ground, where he lay stunned, nausea and bile welling up within him.

  Laughter sounded.

  The other Indians had gathered and were openly amused. The boy slowly, warily got to his knees, panting, his mouth ringed with the man’s Wood. His heart was thudding wildly in his ribs as he met the tall Indian’s gaze. It wasn’t black with anger, just dark and enigmatic.

  Jack turned on his heels and fled He knew it was hopeless, but he would die before he quit.

  More laughter.

  He was caught instantly. This time the Indian was careful, holding Jack in front of him in his arms while the boy twisted and spat like a wildcat; trying to claw his adversary’s face. The man spoke sharply. Jack didn’t have to speak his language to know he was being told to be still. He didn’t listen.

  He was thrown on the big bay horse, the greased man leaping up behind him. Even as the Indian’s body was touching down, the boy was sliding off. He was hauled unceremoniously back up by one ear—and it hurt.

  So did the hard, stinging slap to his buttocks when he was flipped abruptly over on the rider’s lap. Six smacks, and each hurt worse than the one before—but he wouldn’t cry out. He’d gotten worse from his father many times.

  The man who had captured him was the son of the chief of a band of Chiricahua Apaches, and his name was Cochise. Out of respect for Jack’s fierce bravery, Cochise gave him a name—Niño Salvaje, Wild Boy Child. Mistakenly, the Apache had assumed he was Mexican because so few Americans had drifted this far west.

  Jack did not speak either Spanish or Apache, and it was many years before he understood what his name meant—or the great honor it was to be named by a respected, famous warrior whom everyone knew would one day be their next chief. Cochise gave him to a Coyotero Apache couple as a gift. Jack knew he was a captive and a slave. He did not know that the gift of a brave boy child to an Apache couple was a special and great honor—for everyone expected him to one day become a fierce Apache warrior.

  And he did.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Oh, my God.

  She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, not daring to breathe, not daring to move.

  There was an Indian sitting just a few feet away, across a small fire.

  Where was she? What had happened? My God—she couldn’t have seen what she thought she had seen. Taking a small breath, Candice opened her eyes the tiniest amount possible and peeked out through her lashes.

  She hadn’t been hallucinating.

  And she wasn’t dreaming.

  He was still there—looking straight at her.

  She quickly closed her eyes again, praying that he hadn’t seen her looking at him. He had been staring at her expressionlessly from where he sat just outside the firelight. She had seen enough to know that he was naked from the waist up, his hair shoulder length and kept out of his face with a headband, his legs clad in soft buckskins.

  Had he seen that she was awake?

  It all came flooding back. She had run away with Kincaid, he had betrayed her, and dear God forgive her, she had murdered him. In self-defense. And then she had fled Yuma on horseback, in terror of being arrested and hanged. A snake had killed her horse, and the last thing she remembered was walking, falling, burning—knowing she was going to die. This Indian must have found her.

  She dared to peek again at the man sitting in the shadows of the fire’s light. He was no longer gazing so relentlessly at her, but into the flames. He was the largest Indian she had ever seen—Indians were usually thin and of medium or small height. Even though he was sitting in shadows she could see he had broad shoulders and a broad, muscular chest. Something was glinting on that chest—something silver, a necklace. If only it was daylight, if only she could get a better look, she could tell what kind of Indian he was. She prayed he wasn’t Apache.

  His glance lifted and caught hers.

  Candice slammed her lids shut, holding her breath, freezing her body, praying. She heard him move. The tempo of her prayers increased. There was a hiss of flames licking logs, and she started, eyes flashing; open, to see him stirring the fire. He turned his head and looked directly at her.

  It was too late. She knew he knew that she was awake. Still Candice didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was frozen in terror.

  He was Apache.

  He had stood up to tend the fire, stepping closer to her at the same time. She had seen his leggings. Thigh-high but now rolled to the knee and beaded across the instep. The giveaway was the toe tip, and the way it curled up. It was very distinctive. They were Apache moccasins.

  Candice started to shake.

  It was then, as he approached with a silent tread, his shadow giving him away, that she jerked her head up in horror, no longer feigning sleep. He looked even taller and larger from this perspective, standing over her while she lay prostrate on the ground, the fire behind him now, illuminating his broad, hard outline and face.

  With a start, she realized he was a half-breed. His eyes were pale, gray or blue, his features very white and perfectly chiseled—high cheekbones, a straight nose, a strong jaw, and sensual lips. He was very dark, whether tanned from the sun or from an Apache parent, she couldn’t tell. He was wearing a large, crude necklace of silver and turquoise. From a row of stones, two silver conches were suspended, and beneath that, two flat, rectangular pieces of silver. She had seen a necklace like that once before. It had belonged to an Apache warrior.

  He was also fully armed. He wore a low-slung gunbelt boasting two tied-down Colts. Around his waist was a heavy, studded belt, and from it glinted a dangerous-looking knife. Candice was trembling.

  As he squatted down beside her, the full extent of her predicament hit her—she was naked beneath the buckskin blanket. Completely naked—without a single undergarment. A choked sob rose up in her throat. Had he already raped her while she was unconscious? Dear God—and would he do so now?

  He met her gaze again, and from the guarded expression on his face something hard and angry appeared, darkening his features, making his eyes a silvery gray glitter. She shrank back. He gritted and reached out. One large, thick hand caught hanks of her hair, preventing any further movement. She whimpered at his touch.

  He cursed in his own language.

  She was stiff with fear. He raised her head, his expression becoming more thunderous. She resisted, becoming more rigid. He was holding a tin mug, which he set down as he clamped his arm around her back and pulled her abruptly upright, into the crook of his arm and chest. His bare flesh was warm and hard against her own naked shoulder. And in the process, the blanket drooped, revealing
her full, white breasts.

  Candice’s hands came up to press against his chest, lightly furred with dark hair and as hard as a rock. “No.”

  His arm tightened. “Be still.”

  “No.”

  He looked at her, his eyes smoldering. She cringed. His gaze dropped to her naked breasts. With a growl, or maybe it was an Apache word, he pulled the blanket up, yanked her arm over it, pulled her even harder against his torso, and picked up the mug. “Drink this.”

  “What?”

  “Can you sit up by yourself?”

  Not only did he speak English, but except for a soft accent, it was perfect. “I—I think so.”

  “Good.”

  He released her so abruptly she sagged backward, catching the blanket just in time. He shoved the mug into her hand, and she realized it was full of a steaming liquid. He walked away.

  Relief swept over her.

  He had only wanted to give her tea.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Candice held the mug and watched the half-breed Apache, making sure that she didn’t let go of the blanket. What was he going to do with her? She had to escape.

  She had been living in this Territory since she was eight, and she knew everything there was to know about hostile Indians, especially Apaches, who were the worst. They didn’t just kill—they raped women and tortured and scalped their victims, including children. Candice shuddered and set the tea aside. A vivid memory assailed her, one she would never forget, no matter how hard she tried. A little boy. Lying dead, flat on his back next to a gutted-out wagon. Two arrows protruded from his small chest. His blue-and-white homespun shirt was covered with blood. His eyes were still open. And—his scalp had been lifted. His skull was raw and red.

  Apaches had done that.

  She had to escape.

  But she also knew that Apaches were the best trackers in the world. If she did succeed in escaping, he would find her easily. Which meant only one thing—she would have to kill him. Her gaze had been glued to his broad, powerful back as he stood facing the fire. Now he turned and she inhaled sharply, stiffening. His glance was piercing, stripping her, and knowing that he actually had done so, and had possibly raped her too, made her feel sick deep inside.

  “Why didn’t you drink it?”

  She started.

  He moved, only two steps closer, but it was the coiled, barely contained energy that mesmerized her. He reminded her of a stalking mountain lion, waiting to leap for the kill. Her fingers were white on the blanket.

  “Drink the tea.”

  She reached for the mug, not taking her eyes off him until she felt the smooth metal under her hand, and then, with a gasp, she drew back as she knocked it over and the hot liquid burned her fingers.

  He squatted, taking her hand.

  She held every muscle so tense she wondered if her body might snap. Her eyes had closed, and when she realized that, she opened them to find him studying her. “It’s not burned.” He stood, refilled the mug, and brought it to her. “Drink this, it’s good for you. You need the liquid.”

  She obeyed at first because she had no choice, but the moment she swallowed she couldn’t get enough of the warm herbal tea. She drained the cup and he refilled it. After she had drunk another cup, she set it aside and lifted her gaze to his. He was standing, staring openly. At her hair.

  It had fallen in a riotous mass of curls over one white shoulder. She shoved it back instantly. His eye followed her movement, narrowing. All she could think of was that he had probably never met a woman who had hair like hers—and was already coveting her scalp.

  His expression hardened. “I’m getting tired of the way you’re looking at me.”

  She sucked in her breath at the menace in his tone.

  “Damn it,” he exploded, squatting and grabbing her chin in one callused hand. “I am not going to hurt you!”

  No man had ever touched her with such violent anger before—not even Kincaid. He seemed to expect an answer, so she breathed out a barely audible yes. He cursed again, in English, words she’d never heard, and she blushed furiously. He stood, paced away, and then back.

  His expression was even darker. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  She didn’t answer, and he repeated the question angrily.

  “I’m … Candice Carter,” she managed.

  Recognition flared. “One of the High C Carters?” At her nod, he said, “What are you doing out here alone, on foot?”

  Kincaid’s death flashed before her mind and she went white. “I—I eloped.” When there was no response, she went on, hearing the anxiety in her own breath. “My husband, Virgil Kincaid, was killed. A—a robbery. In Arizona City.” She had been looking at the blanket, blood pounding in her ears with the telling of such an astronomical lie. What if there was a bounty out for her capture? What if he turned her over to the authorities? Then her family would find out the truth—that she had killed Kincaid when he had tried to rape her—and she would be ruined forever. They would be unbearably shamed. She darted a glance up at her captor. He was unmoved. Tears came to her eyes. Tears of hopelessness, frustration, and self-pity … because of Kincaid, and because of this man standing half clad before her.

  “That doesn’t explain what you were doing out in the desert, dying.” The statement was flat and emphatic.

  More tears glimmered. “I was stunned. It was right after the wedding,” she whispered. “I—I came back—to our room—and there he was—on the floor.” She started to cry. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t intend it as a strategy to stop the questions that only lies could answer, but it worked as such—for he made an exasperated sound and walked away. When she looked up, blinking, he was lying on the ground, on his back, staring at the stars. She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. Still staring. She was stunned when he closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep immediately.

  She sat very still.

  He wasn’t going to harm her, at least not now. She breathed a fast prayer of thanks.

  What was he going to do with her? She knew of other stories too. Stories of white women who disappeared forever when their menfolk were killed by Indians. One, a woman with unusually lovely light-blue eyes, had been taken captive when her husband and another family were slaughtered by Comanches near El Paso. She had been badly beaten, her hair chopped off, and passed around to all the men. When she turned up ten years later at a trading post, she was barely distinguishable as white. Her skin was tanned to a nut brown, and she was clad in buckskins and calico—a cradleboard and infant on her back, and four half-breed children following close behind. She was a pathetic echo of the woman she had once been, perhaps insane. A sister and her husband took her in, but she was never the same.

  Candice would kill herself before letting this Apache take her back to his camp.

  The moon was a perfect, pale-champagne crescent. There was no breeze, and the night was perfectly still except for the yelping of a distant coyote. Her captor was sleeping motionlessly. Candice knew she had no choice. She would wait a little longer to make sure he was sound asleep. Meanwhile, her gaze scanned the ground next to her for a rock big enough to kill him with.

  She found it, her hand closing over it. It had a jagged edge, enough to do the trick. She felt ill. Killing in cold blood, even if the man was an Apache … she didn’t know if she could do it. He’s a half-breed, an inner voice said. Partly white. Candice thought of the scalped boy, of the captive woman. She picked up the stone.

  Not even a branch rustled. The desert’s silence was complete. No owls, no scurrying opossums. Candice clutched the blanket more tightly with one hand, the stone in the other. She began crawling toward him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She moved with all the grace of a cow

  A drunken cow.

  She could be a mile away and he would still hear her, and if what she was doing wasn’t so serious—if she didn’t have that deadly stone in her hand—he would be laughing. Instead, he didn’t move. His breathing was relaxed and even. His lashes lay thick and dark on his skin.