The Darkest Heart (31 page)

She was carrying his child. The doctor had confirmed she was about six weeks along. That ended any and all doubt as to the child’s paternity—only he could be the father. He was thrilled. He couldn’t wait for the birth of their child, and
he was doing what he had to do—taking care of his wife the best way he knew how.

After the baby was born, things would be different. They would set out for California—he’d already decided. But he needed a stake, and the next year was going to see him accumulate enough for the move and a few head of cattle. The first few years wouldn’t be easy, of course. But one day he would build her a fine home, with huge white pillars and a verandah that went all the way around the house. And a garden full of roses. His children would be sent away to school once they were old enough, to get the education he’d never gotten. His wife would have whatever she desired.

His dreams did not ease the guilt he felt about their current situation.

Because, despite the baby, he knew his motivations were more selfish than pure. No matter how hard he fought her web, he had already lost the war—and he just couldn’t ever let her go.

Ten days later Jack saw the preacher and couldn’t believe his luck.

This was what he had been waiting for. Like most towns, El Paso didn’t have a preacher, and the townspeople waited for one to travel through to hold services and weddings. If too much time elapsed between visits, couples would often forgo the legality and move in together, then make things right when the preacher did appear. Jack had never forgotten Candice’s threat that she wasn’t the first unmarried mother-to-be—with its implication that she could and would leave him if she felt like it. He had been intending to tie her to him with a Christian wedding from the moment he’d found out she was pregnant, although he hadn’t mentioned it because he was afraid she would balk. Now he would make her say her vows at gunpoint, if necessary. Nothing was going to stop this ceremony from taking place.

It didn’t matter that the preacher hadn’t shaved in weeks, or, from the looks of him, washed either. It didn’t matter that he was standing outside the saloon, swaying slightly, obviously drunk. Jack approached with rapid strides, his heart pounding, calling out. The man didn’t even turn his head, not until Jack called out again and laid a hand on his arm.

The man jumped.

“Sorry, Padre, Jack said. He could smell the whiskey on his breath. “I’ve been waiting for a preacher to ride into town.”

The man nodded. “An’ whut—whut ken I do fo’ you—my son?” He slurred.

“I need to get married. We’ve been living in sin.”

The preacher hung on to the doorpost. “S’fine. My pleasure, an’ God’s. Yuh got five dollars—son?”

“Yes. You think you can perform the ceremony now, Padre?”

“Yeah,” the man said, and smiled.

Jack took him by the arm and led him to their house. Candice was in the yard doing laundry again, and this was the
second time he’d seen her doing so much—looking so flushed and fatigued, the strain etching lines on her forehead. His gut was tight. He had one set of clothes other than buckskins. Just what in hell was she washing?

“Candice.”

She turned, saw him and the inebriated preacher, and her smile faded to a quizzical then nervous expression. “Jack?” Her look was uneasy.

He forgot about the laundry when the truth hit him with a painful blow—she didn’t want to get married. “Padre,” he said, “why don’t you go on inside and have a whiskey. We’ll be right in.”

The preacher grinned. “Than’ you, son, than’ you.”

Jack watched him begin an unsteady walk to the door before turning to Candice. “We’re getting married.”

Her navy eyes went wide.

“As far as I’m concerned, you are my wife, but I won’t have the
pindah
saying my son is a bastard.” His voice was soft, ruthless. “Do you understand?”

Candice overcame her initial shock. Things had gone too far—she was pregnant and his mistress, so this was the only solution, and it had been what she had secretly hoped for. She did not want her baby called a bastard either, not ever. And she loved Jack—although she’d never told him that, not since the first time, because she didn’t think he felt the same way about her.

She was momentarily disappointed. She knew he was marrying her because of the baby, not because of herself. Then she realized she didn’t care. One thing Jack had was honor—he would never abandon them, and marriage would tie her to him forever.

He reached out and his hand closed too firmly over her wrist. “I’m not giving you a choice,” he growled.

She looked up, startled, realizing he’d misread her reasons for hesitation. “Let’s get married,” she said, too lightly. Then she added, “Is he too drunk to perform the ceremony?”

“I don’t really care,” Jack replied, “just so long as it’s legal.”

When they entered, the preacher stood, knocking over his chair and looking foolish. “That’s all right, Padre,” Jack said, picking up the chair.

“Sorry.”

“Are you Catholic, Father?” Candice asked. Jack kept calling him Padre.

He looked confused. “No.”

“Oh.”

He reached inside his jacket and produced a small, worn Bible. Jack stepped to Candice’s side. Candice hastily yanked off her kerchief and stuffed it into her apron pocket. She had a flash of every woman’s fantasy—of herself as a bride, gorgeous in white satin and lace with a veil and a ten-foot train, waiting down a real church aisle, with Jack waiting for her—resplendent in a black suit. Her father giving her away.

Tears came to her eyes, and she blinked them away. She would not compare this ceremony to what she’d always imagined her wedding would be. She wouldn’t.

“In sickness an’ in health, to love an’ to cherish?” the preacher was saying.

“I do,” Jack said.

“An’ do you, er—”

Candice felt panic. He needed to know her name, her real name. She was frozen, not even able to breathe.

“Candice Kincaid,” Jack supplied.

Oh, my God, I should have told him
. She heard herself inhale loudly. “Candice Carter,” she corrected, her voice a bare whisper.

Jack’s gaze swung to her, hard, incredulous, burning.

“An’ d’you, Candice Kincaid, take this man to be your husban’, to love an’ to cherish, in sickness an’ health, until death do you part?”

She didn’t dare look at Jack. She could feel the heat of his gaze. “It’s Carter,” she said, forcing herself to speak up.

“Carter?” The preacher looked infinitely puzzled. Then his brows drew together. “Can’t you make up your min’?”

“Candice Carter,” Jack reiterated, his voice low and menacing.

“D’you, Candice
Carter
, take this man to be your husban’?”

Candice had never heard such an abbreviated ceremony, but more important was Jack’s burning gaze on her.
I should have told him the truth
. “Yes, I do.”

“You got a ring?”

Jack had a ring. He’d acquired the plain gold band weeks ago, and he saw Candice’s surprise when he slipped it on her finger.

“There.” The preacher grinned, snapping the Bible shut, and Candice saw it had been upside down. “I now pronounce you man an’ wife.”

Candice’s mind raced.

Jack paid the preacher, thanking him, offering him coffee and something to eat. He refused, and Jack escorted him to the door. “Thanks again,” he said, closing the door firmly and turning slowly to race Candice. Her face was flaming.

“You were never married to Kincaid.”

“Jack, I can explain.”

His eyes were flat and cold. “If you weren’t his wife, then how could he force you to go with him?”

“Jack, please let me explain.”

“I’m waiting.”

“We eloped—but in Fort Yuma he refused to marry me. He told me he only wanted me to be his mistress. We fought. He tried to rape me. I shot him. I thought I’d killed him.”

Jack stared.

She swallowed because her throat was dry. “I was afraid they’d hang me as a murderess, so I stole a horse and ran away. After that, you found me. When Kincaid reappeared I was trapped. My reputation was already in shreds. I couldn’t let my family know we’d run off together and never been married—I just couldn’t. I’d already lied—already told everyone we were married. Don’t you see?” she pleaded.

There was a long silence. “What other lies have you told me?”

Instantly she thought about the laundry. “None—not really. I mean …” She flushed again.

“There’s something else you’re hiding from me, isn’t there?” He reached her in two hard strides and pulled her to her feet. “What is it, Candice? Is it about the baby?” His eyes flashed.

“No!”

“Is that baby another man’s?”

“God—no! It’s about the laundry!”

He instantly relaxed, looking incredulous and relieved all at once.

She touched his face. “Jack, the baby is ours. Yours and mine. I swear to it.”

He released her. “What kind of lie could there be about laundry? What in hell are you washing, anyway?”

She bit her lip. “I’m taking in laundry, from the soldiers and the hotel.”

He stared.

Not a sound could be heard in the dim room.

Candice tried a smile. “We need the cash. It was all I could think of.”

He exploded, his face turning red, veins straining. “You’re taking in laundry? My wife a washerwoman?”

She took an instinctive step back. “Jack, it’s not so bad—”

“Even if you weren’t pregnant, I wouldn’t let you do it!” he shouted. “You get that garbage out of my yard and give it back to whoever it belongs to. You, woman, are out of business!” He jammed a finger at her.

“What am I supposed to do? How can we live? We need the money, damn you, Jack—damn your pride! I can’t live on eggs and squirrels! We need flour, sugar, coffee, ham, soap, cloth, thread—the list is endless!”

“You return that laundry, Candice. You return every bit of it today. You’re not taking it in again, and that’s that.”

“I am your
wife,”
Candice said, so furious her voice cracked. “Not some squaw! You can’t order me around!”

“You return that goddamned laundry today, Candice,” Jack warned. His hands closed on her shoulders.

Candice tried to twist free but he wouldn’t let her. “I’m only doing what has to be done. We have nothing!”

His eyes widened, while a muscle tightened in his jaw. “Jack!” she gasped. “I didn’t—”

He released her and slammed out of the house. The frame around the door trembled long after he was gone.

Candice sank onto the bed, trembling, fighting tears. She hadn’t meant to say that, she knew how proud he was.

And that night, when Jack came back, he didn’t even reach for her in the dark.

Candice heard the door opening and looked up, smiling. “You’re just in time.” Seeing Jack’s grim expression, her smile faded. “What’s wrong, Jack?”

“I just heard some news,” he said grimly. “There are troops up at Apache Pass way station under siege, along with two stages full of passengers. Two men have been killed, and more are wounded. The rumor is Cochise has taken three Americans prisoner.”

Candice paused, carving knife in hand, the succulent roast chicken forgotten.

“Apparently,” Jack said, “Cochise has gone on the warpath.”

She searched her husband’s smoky gaze. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve heard that Oury’s going to rendezvous with troops from Fort Breckenridge at Ewell Springs. They’re rounding up volunteers in Tucson. They also sent soldiers to Fort Buchanan for medical aid and supplies.” Oury was the agent for the Butterfield Overland Mail.

“How did this happen?”

“Remember the kidnapping of John Warden’s boy this fall? The troops were sent to find him.” Jack sat down and stared at the fire.

“I heard you say a long time ago that Cochise didn’t take the boy,” Candice said, sitting also.

“Warden says he did.” He briefly met his wife’s gaze and was struck by the compassion he saw there. She couldn’t know what he was going through.

“Jack?” Her voice was high and uneasy. “Is this war?”

“Yes.”

Jack’s face was expressionless. He knew, without having to be told, that if white men had been killed and taken prisoner, it was war. And the only thing that would make Cochise break his word was betrayal. Cochise betrayed would
be a warrior who would wreak devastation the extent of which no one could imagine except for himself. He was grim and pensive. And afraid.

“Do you want to eat?” Candice asked gently, thinking fearfully about her brothers and father. They had never been at war with the Apaches, not since they had moved to the Territory almost eleven years ago. Raids and skirmishes were one thing. But war? God, no.

“You eat,” Jack said. “I’m not hungry.”

He walked outside, alone—but not to do chores. He mounted up and rode out of town, giving the black his head, thinking. His thoughts were dark.

He respected and admired Cochise above all other men. He was proud that Cochise had given him his childhood name, and had been proud, too, to ride with him and be held in respect by the Chiricahua chief. He understood what was happening better than most men, white or Apache. Cochise had sought to make peace with the white man to insure the survival of his people. The Apaches were few, the white many, their ways superior, more powerful—ways built on wisdom and technology. The whites had guns, cannon, glasses, maps, supplies, and, most important, endless numbers. Only in peace could the Apache hope to survive, by living side by side with the Americans.