The Darkest Heart (11 page)

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.

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.”

Shozkay nodded. “Or she will be,” he murmured, and the owl hooted again. In broad daylight. There was no doubt who it was. He was starting to feel the effects of the
tulapai
, and he leaned against a rock. “She told me one of her wishes was for you to have sons.”

Jack started. Then: “Yes, I know.”

“We have many fine squaws.”

Jack managed a faint smile. “Twice was enough.” A vivid image of Candice Carter assaulted him. And with her image came a poignant yearning.

Shozkay regarded him with an attempt at sobriety. The jug was half empty. “It is not healthy to nave no woman—just like it is not healthy to have too many too often.”

“True,” Jack agreed, nodding thoughtfully now that the alcohol had lessened his grief a bit. As an Apache he had been raised to believe in sexual moderation. With both of his wives he had not been very successful at attempting to avoid excess. He had always, deep inside, believed that the reason for that was his white blood. Now he imagined having a white woman like Candice Carter for a wife. He would never be able to stay out of her bed. He made a sound, not exactly a laugh, with a hard edge to it.

“What is so funny—or so sad?” Shozkay was too perceptive.

Jack didn’t want to tell him, but he had been alone for too long with no one to talk to. He pulled a fistful of grass from the ground and clenched it. “I hate the white man’s whores.”

“The few I have seen were ugly, fat, and dirty,” Shozkay agreed.

Jack threw the grass away. Candice was beautiful, slim except for her voluptuous breasts—and clean. His loins tightened with the memory of her.

“So you have not taken a white wife.”

Another derisive sound.

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Jack laughed. “A breed like myself?”

“I see,” his brother said. “Do not go back to the
pindah
. We are your kind. Stay here.”

“I can’t,” Jack said, guzzling from the jug.

“Your second wife has moon-eyes for you.”

“No.”

“Then there is someone?”

“No,” Jack gritted, then looked his brother in the eye. “Yes. Maybe. Ahh, she is white. You don’t understand.”

“Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell. To her I am not a man but something less—a half-breed.”

“Then make her change her mind,” Shozkay said.

Jack looked at him. He drank again. The advice echoed, disturbing him.

“Can one woman defeat Niño Salvaje?”

Jack met his gaze. “Maybe,” he said softly, “this one can.”

“I don’t think so,” Shozkay replied.

“How is your wife?” Jack asked, abruptly changing the topic. But he couldn’t shake the words:
Then change her mind
.

“Ahh …” Shozkay grinned broadly. “Very impossible. I have to beat her twice a day.”

Jack laughed with real humor. Shozkay had married one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her name was Luz. She was not from their tribe, but a Chiricahua Apache. Although usually when a warrior married he joined his wife’s people, to provide for her family, it was not unheard of for an elder son or a single son to remain in the band of his birth and uproot his wire from her own kin. Shozkay had done just that.

Luz was very tall, just a head shorter than her husband, and willowy. Her face was oval, her hair jet black. She had green eyes. Her grandmother had been a white woman. Although she had initially shown Shozkay that she was interested in him, she had rejected his subsequent advances, and he had courted her furiously for six months before he had dared allow his kin to send gifts to her family for her hand.

Luz had returned the gifts—which was an unequivocal rejection—but Shozkay had persisted, and the next time he had sent gifts, they had not been returned.

They had been married four years. Jack had never seen two people as close. Sometimes the way they looked at each other amused him. Sometimes it gave him a strange, disturbing
sensation. He and Chilahe had never shared the depth of emotion that his brother and his wife had. “She is a good woman, Shozkay,” he said softly.

“Yes.”

Jack smiled. “Maybe you had better beat her three times a day, heh? To make her better.”

They both chuckled at the absurdity of it.

Jack had to focus hard to find his bedroll, even though he knew he should have been able to locate it blindfolded, or without the nearly full moon to see by. But that was the problem. He was having trouble with his vision. He chuckled aloud. He and Shozkay had drunk several jugs of
tulapai
. They were both going to think they were dying in the morning, but right now he didn’t give a damn.

After a thorough search of the area to the southeast of the camp, which he determined was where he had laid his gear, he finally found the spot.

Shozkay had offered him his
gohwah
. So had Hayilkah, and numerous others, including the dead brave’s family. But Jack had refused. There was nothing he liked more than sleeping in the starlight, especially when the air was mountain fresh and slightly cool, like now. He lay on his blanket and fell right into sleep.

He had a wonderful dream. A woman was pressing her bare, soft breasts against his back, kissing his neck, his ear. The whole length of her strained against him, and she pressed the soft heat of her womanhood against his buttocks, her hands stroking the hair on his chest. Her hands roamed lower, light and deft, and Jack was in bliss—an excited bliss. He rolled over to face her, enveloping her in his arms, his mouth seeking hers, finding it. It was so real. It was too real. Jack woke up.

He did have a woman in his arms, and she was naked—as was he. She was silky soft, writhing against him, making soft little noises. Her hair was long and straight, and spilled over his hands as they roamed her back. Her nipples were hard and teased his chest.

Her hips arched up against his and begged him on. Jack’s whole body was trembling, on fire. He thrust into her, hard, fast, and when she cried his name he knew it was Datiye.

When he awoke she was gone. She was the second thing he remembered. The first was his mother, and the heaviness in his heart, the awful feeling of loss. Then he recalled that Datiye had come to him in the night. He knew she had deep feelings for him, and he sensed that becoming involved with her again would cause him trouble. Although he did not consider last night a renewal of their relationship, he was sure she did. He grew angry.

Angry at her. For she would never have gotten what she wanted if she hadn’t taken advantage of his inebriated state. If he was going to lie with a woman he would have chosen someone else, maybe the slim young widow Barhilye. But not Datiye. And he was angry at himself. Inebriated or not, he should have resisted. He did not want a woman in his life who would make demands on him.

He thought about the three
pindah
he had killed, the ones who had staked out the novice warrior—the young boy. He thought about the fourth man, the one he had marked by shooting him, and he thought of the vengeance that would follow shortly. A war party would probably go out within a few days.

He packed up all his gear, feeling grim.

He heard them before he saw them. He was cinching up the saddle, and he turned slightly to see Datiye standing with Shozkay and Luz. He had just finished when she ran to him. “You’re leaving!”

He turned abruptly, his silver eyes hard. “This does not change anything.”

“Do not be angry,” she said softly. “Last night was beautiful, all I have dreamed of. I wanted you very much.”

Jack did not reply.

“I will never marry again,” she said seriously. “I am yours now. I will wait for you to return.”

Jack’s jaw clenched. “No, Datiye. I do not want you to wait for me. You are not my woman.”

Her expression didn’t change. “You have my heart. What happened last night was only right.”

“Last night means nothing!” Jack exploded.

“No.” She touched his shoulder, making him turn back to her. “You are very wrong.”

He shifted impatiently, looked past her at his brother
and his wife. Datiye gave him one last look before drifting away and disappearing into the trees. Shozkay and Luz came forward. It was hard meeting his brother’s expression. “So short a time with us?” Luz asked. “Usen walk with you, Salvaje. Do not stay away so long this time.”

He smiled. “Usen walk with you, Luz.”

She turned and left.

Jack faced his brother’s dark, disturbed gaze. “One day,” Shozkay said, “maybe you will explain this to me.”