The Darkest Heart Page 8

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He traveled relentlessly through that night and the next day.

  He wanted to get as far away from her as possible, as quickly as possible. As if doing so might erase her from his mind.

  The anger was not so hard and hot anymore. It was mostly the kiss that had mitigated it. The feel of her beneath him, now she hadn’t fought, hadn’t been repulsed, how she had arched her soft, hot groin into the thickness of his. She had wanted him. For that one kiss, she had wanted him. But the triumph was tempered with the knowledge of defeat.

  Candice Carter was not for him, no matter what.

  It didn’t matter that her father and her oldest brother’s bigotry was tempered somewhat by fairness. Nor did it matter that she had come herself to tend him—taking care of him again. Or even that her brother had, too. What mattered was that he was considered the enemy. Even by her.

  When he had awoken to find his horse and her gone, he had been more than furious—he had been acutely disapointed. Maybe it was because for a moment he had dared to hope she could be more than a pampered, frightened white woman. She was a fool not to know that he would go after her—as much to retrieve his horse as to look her in the eye with all the contempt he could muster. He had started out at a ground-eating dogtrot; he could track at night as well as in daylight. And he knew she had only a few hours on him. But he wasn’t up to it. His pace had slowed. He’d had to stop. When he’d gotten to the ranch gates only his determination drove him on and kept him rigidly upright. If he’d been in better health he could have scaled the walls silently, maybe even stolen his horse back without anyone knowing. But he wanted more than just the horse. He had to see her. And it had almost been the death of him, both because of the fever and because of the white men who were too eager to kill him for having saved her life.

  Then the compassion in her eyes, along with the guilt, had nearly caved him in right there.

  But none of it mattered, and he was regaining his strength—and his senses. Kissing her had been the most uncontrolled, impulsive thing he had ever done, and he’d half done it out of anger. But the desire had been too close to the surface, and her response hadn’t helped.

  If only he could forget it.

  The night before he arrived at the camp Jack sent up a signal with torches. The message was simple. He was a friend, carrying bad news, and he was coming.

  Shozkay’s band was larger than most. Over two dozen gohwahs spotted the little canyon that was lush with fell foliage, bright with leaves turning gold, and well watered by a racing creek. Beyond the camp, the fields had been cleared and planted with maize and pumpkin. The harvest had already begun. Several long irrigation ditches ran through the fields. As Jack rode in to the camp, he could smell venison and elk smoking, and hides newly hung, drying in the sun. There was even the spicy-sweet aroma of mescal cakes baking in deep ovens. He inhaled deeply—savoring the wonderful smells.

  He was recognized instantly as he rode into the camp. Squaws and braves smiled at him, and he heard a woman running, gossiping already, crying to anyone who would hear that the second son of Machu had returned, looking like a White Eyes. He smiled. To the whites he knew he looked unmistakably Apache.

  He slid off the black and saw his brother approaching.

  Shozkay was chief, so he did not run, but he walked with long, rapid strides, clad only in thigh-high moccasins and a traditional buckskin breechcloth. His name meant “White Bear.” He was as tall as Jack, and as broad of shoulder, but less massive. A headcloth kept his long black hair out of his face, and he wore an elaborate necklace similar to Jack’s, except that a row of wolf’s teeth made a double strand with the turquoise. There was a broad smile on his face as he embraced Jack. “Shik’isn. My brother. Usen has guarded you well.”

  “Shik’isn,” Jack returned the greeting. “The many winters sit well with you.” He clasped Shozkay back, and they separated.

  “What is this?” Shozkay said, straight-faced, fingering

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  Shozkay nodded.

  “How is Mother?”

  Shozkay placed a restraining hand upon him. “She has not been well,” he said.

  Jack stared.

  “Father has been calling her.”

  Jack’s startled emotion showed in his silver eyes. Machu, his adoptive father, was dead. If he was calling Jack’s mother, it meant only one thing. He quickly turned and left, making his way through the camp deliberately, overwhelmed with what he had just found out. Returning was hard enough.

  No one stopped him, although some children who were too young to know him shrieked and pointed. Normally, Jack would have stopped to tease them, winning them over eventually. But now he could only think of what Shozkay had said. She wasn’t well. She was dying.

  Inside the gohwah he could see Nalee’s large bulk lying on a bed of hides. The old woman seemed to be sleeping. In her youth, she was said to have been as fast a runner as all the boys, and a beautiful girl. There was still beauty on her face, which was high-cheekboned and aristocratic. Jack sank down next to her, for a moment just looking at her. In sleep, her wrinkles were minimal, and he glimpsed the young girl she had once been. His heart ached unbearably. He loved her.

  When he had first seen Nalee, he had been a frightened, wary boy. He didn’t speak Spanish, and obviously not Apache, so there was no way he could be told that he was being given to this woman as a special gift. He had stopped fighting his captors very rapidly—there was no point. But he had tried to escape once, only to be caught before he had even left the narrow entrance of the stronghold canyon where the tribe camped.

  Nalee gave him food and then sent him with the other children of the tribe, including Shozkay, who regarded him suspiciously. An old man was showing the children animal tracks, then instructing them in tracking the animals to their lairs. Jack found himself tagging along, unable to understand except by perception what they were discussing. When the old man found a new set of tracks and pointed to him, Jack knew it was his turn to trail the squirrel. It was in his mind to refuse stubbornly, but Shozkay gave him a push. Everyone was waiting to see what he would do. He tracked the animal right to its tree with pure determination, and maybe a little luck. The old man clapped him on the shoulder. “Enju, Niño Salvaje, enju.”

  Jack had already learned his name, the one they were calling him, and he had learned a few simple words, including this one, which seemed to mean “well done” or “good.” He felt a stirring of pride.

  And later that night when Shozkay was talking and pointing at him, relating what had happened that afternoon, he grew hot with being the object of their discussion. But when he looked up, when the man, Machu, smiled, and the woman, Nalee, beamed, he felt more than a stirring—he felt pride. He knew they were pleased with what he had done.

  Now Jack took Nalee’s hand. Her eyes fluttered open, and she started. He smiled tenderly. She smiled back. “I knew you would come.”

  “I am here, shimaa,” he said, emotion creeping into his voice. She wasn’t his natural mother, but she was the only one he had ever known. And as far as he was concerned, she was as much a real mother to him as she was to Shozkay. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “No, shiye’. Now I have everything.” She reached up to stroke his cheek. “It has been too long.” She sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. He saw that she had lost weight. She was still a large woman, but not as large as she had been. He held her hand tighter.

  “Now I can go in peace,” she said softly. “Machu awaits.” She smiled weakly at him. “I am so tired.”

  “Shimaa, not yet,” Jack said, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t go. Shitaa’ has waited this long for you, he can wait a little longer.” He felt tears welling up in his eyes.

  “I have only been waiting to say good-bye to you.” Her eyes were suddenly crystal clear. “How is life with the white man, shiye’?”

  “Enju,” he managed. Good, it is well. He would never tell her the truth. That he could walk in both worlds, white and Apache, but not easily. That he did not belong to their world and could not remain in this one.

  “Have you chosen a warrior’s name for yourself, son? The time has long passed for you to take a proud, brave name.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, not wanting to tell her.

  “Tell me.” She smiled.

  “Jack Savage.” He regarded her steadily and could not miss the disappointment that rose in her eyes.

  “A name of the pindah.”

  “Yes.”

  “First you leave the people to live in their world. Now you choose their name. Are you turning your back on the people, on everything your parents have raised you to be, have given you?

  “No, shimaa, no.”

  Nalee sighed wearily, trying to raise herself up. Jack gently propped her up, a tear spilling onto his cheek. “Don’t distress yourself, shimaa. It’s not important.” But of course it was.

  “It is important. When my son comes home wearing a white man’s name, it is important. You are as much Apache as white, shiye’, and you must never forget it—Niño Salvaje.”

  A command, using his name of childhood. “I could never forget, believe me,” he said, very softly.

  “‘Jack’ was the name your natural father gave you,” she mused, stroking his hand. The great warrior Cochise named you Niño Salvaje. I will know you from today as Salvaje—the Fierce One.”

  Jack fought the overwhelming urge to cry. Not now, he told himself, it is too soon.

  “Soon you will marry?” It was a hopeful question.

  “There is no one I want,” he replied honestly.

  “Then find someone, Salvaje,” she said. “You are too fine
a man not to have sons.”

  The mention of finding a woman to bear his children added to his grief in one vivid, painful memory. He could still see Chilahe, his first wife, lying so still and dead, in a pool of all her life’s blood, their daughter stillborn. But the way his mother had used his name had turned her wish into another command—one he could not refuse. “Yes, shimaa,” he said respectfully.

  “There is always Datiye. She still wants you. She would remarry you.”

  Jack nodded, choking up from deep inside.

  “But I feel in my heart that you will take a white wife this time. I do not understand. Although white blood fights red blood in your veins, your heart and soul are Apache.” She closed her eyes. “One day, shiye’, you will have to make a choice.”

  Jack lifted her hand to his face. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks. And her words echoed. Didn’t she know that he had already made his choice?

  Nalee had fallen back to sleep. Shozkay came in and the two brothers sat with her for a long time, until the moon had risen well into the sky. No one interrupted, respecting their right to be with their dying mother. Somewhere around midnight she awoke, asking for water. Shozkay raised the bowl to her lips, helping her to drink. “I see Machu,” she murmured. “Still as handsome as the day we met.”

  Jack stroked her hair. “Yes, shimaa.”

  “He beckons. He is very happy,” she said, so softly he could barely hear.

  Nalee died an hour later. Her breathing suddenly slowed and stopped. Just before she died, she opened her eyes and smiled at her sons.

  Immediately two elders came to bathe and dress her body. The camp echoed with distressed wailing and keening, an eerie, distinctly Apache sound of mourning. Jack stumbled away. With his knife, as was the custom, he chopped his near-shoulder-length hair as short as possible. The tears flowed easily but silently—he couldn’t make the noises that wanted to rack his body with grief.

  As soon as Nalee was prepared, she and as many of her personal possessions as possible were placed on her favorite horse, and the burial party, consisting of Jack, Shozkay, and two of their male cousins, set out. She was buried in a deep crevice far from the campsite—which would now be moved, because of her death—along with most of her possessions, including a beautiful hunting knife with a turquoise-encrusted handle mat Jack had made for her. The grave was filled in, her horse killed, and the rest of her possessions scattered about the gravesite. By the time they had returned to the camp, the sun had been up for several hours.

  Jack wandered down to a running creek. The water was icy cold but he didn’t care; his grief had numbed him. He stripped off his buckskins.

  He bathed in the creek mindlessly. His sadness would not lessen. Nalee was joining her husband in the afterlife all Apache believed in. Jack believed in it too, but he wanted her back. He stepped out of the creek, then tensed. There was someone in the shadows of the pinyon trees. His gun lay on the ground by the heap of his buckskins. Suddenly, without warning, he darted one hand out and grabbed the intruder.

  It was Datiye, and she gasped in pain.

  Jack stared at her, still Holding her wrist. She had loosened her long, jet-black hair, and the sunlight danced from it. His grip relaxed. Her eyes searched his. She was one of the prettier squaws; she had Apache features—high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, a straight, slightly hooked nose. Her figure was almost perfect, long-legged and slim-hipped, with small but enticing breasts. She was Chilahe’s younger sister, and he had married her as was his duty almost a year after his first wife’s death.

  And he had divorced her when he left his people, so she would be free to remarry—to be cared for by another brave.

  Jack released her. “What are you doing here? You could get in big trouble if someone sees you here, watching me bathe.”

  “I don’t care,” she said softly. “You are grieving. I have come to take away the grief.”

  Jack turned away. “You can’t take away the grief, woman. No one can.” He bent for his clothes. When he straightened, he felt her soft buckskin-clad body against his back, her hands on his shoulders. He quickly turned to face her, removing her hands and pushing her away. “No.”

  “Please,” she breathed. “I waited a whole winter for you to return, and then I married. Now I am a widow. Let me love you. It will make you forget.”

  “I do not want to forget,” Jack snapped. “And the last thing I feel like doing now is making love.”

  Datiye’s mouth trembled. “I helped you to forget once, or have you forgotten? I want to be your woman.”

  Jack had pulled on his buckskin pants. He buckled the gunbelt with the solitary Colt. “I already have a woman,” he told her.

  “A white woman?” Her voice quavered with tears.

  “Yes,” Not that it was true. But this infatuation had gone on long enough. Even before he had married Chilahe, Datiye, who was only a year younger than her sister, had indicated to him that she was open to his attentions. He had not given them. When they were only children—boys and girls being taught together in the ways of the woods by Grandfather—she had always trailed after him in particular, and had begged him to teach her the strange language of the White Eyes. He had. When Chilahe had died, even after mourning, he had not wanted to wed Datiye, but it had been his duty to do so and provide for her family.

  Chilahe had been a good wife, a hard worker, and eager to please him in their bed of hides. He had married her in his sixteenth or seventeenth winter, shortly after being given warrior status. Never had he dreamed that the most beautiful girl in the band would want him, but she had. His desire for a wife had been natural—he needed a woman to care for him and share his bed. It was the next logical step for a brave after attaining warrior status and enough possessions to pay the bride price.

  So he had cared for Chilahe. Together they had lived and laughed, and learned a hot, adolescent passion. And even though that had been a long time ago, he would never care for another woman again. The reason was simple. He had no room in his life for any woman—Apache or white.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jack sat under a tree by the creek, alone with his memories, After Datiye had gone, no one approached, knowing his thoughts would be full of his mother. The other Apache were both polite in not wanting to intrude, and afraid—for thinking about the dead could cause her ghost to linger.

  Shozkay joined him, his approach so silent that Jack didn’t even near him coming. When they were younger they had had a game: One would hide and the other would have to find him. The object was to escape if you were the prey and to capture if you were the hunter. In either case, only by moving soundlessly and stealthily could one win. Jack had never been able to beat Shozkay—although his brother had assured him that he was as quiet as any Apache. Even back then, Shozkay had exhibited those traits that had eventually made him the band’s chief. He was not just brave, he was cunning; not just smart, but fair; and he was the best hunter and tracker, the fastest runner, the most deadly shot with the bow and arrow when he reached manhood. Although Jack could outride him from their youth, and could later out-wrestle him, Shozkay was the band’s obvious choice to take over leadership when Coyote Fijo wanted to step down.

  Jack half smiled. “Once again, my brother, I have lost our childhood game,” he said.

  Shozkay sank down beside him; “I do not think you would lose anymore, if you were not so buried in grief.” He handed him a clay jug filled with tulapai, liquor made from corn.

  Jack absorbed his brother’s compliment. He knew Shozkay never said anything he didn’t mean. He guzzled the tulapai, then handed the jug back. Shozkay swigged.

  “I already miss her,” Jack said after a while, careful not to mention her name. It was bad luck to even speak of the dead, much less refer to them by name.

  “My heart is heavy too.”

  They drank in silence. A breeze stirred the pines and grass, and an owl hooted. Both men started, looking at each other quickly. Everyone knew spirits favored returning as owls and coyotes. After a while Jack said, “At least she is with Father.”