The Darkest Heart by Brenda Joyce

wooden door.
    She turned as he swung into the saddle. This time he was looking at her, but she couldn’t see much in the shadowy night. She wished she could clearly see his eyes. She hugged herself. He pinned her with his bright gaze for one more instant, then turned and galloped away.

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