The Darkest Heart by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online Page A

turquoise and silver necklace. For a moment she couldn’t move, or even breathe. He was bending over the corpse, doing something. She watched his body, the powerful thighs, the flat stomach, the bulging biceps in his arms. Then she went very red and looked at her feet. What in God’s name was he doing?
    She consciously averted her gaze, until she saw his bare feet moving past her silently. She looked up and realized he was carrying the corpse, which was now naked, into the stream.
    “What are you doing?” she said.
    “He must be washed.”
    Candice was standing. He was lowering the body, and she saw it and gagged. She averted her head, her heart thumping. How could anybody inflict such torture on another human body? She fought to keep the rising bile down.
    She walked hurriedly away, limping a bit. She busied herself with removing her boots and inspecting her blisters, anything to occupy her attention, but found herself compelled to watch. He was bathing every inch of the boy’s body, even his hair. After Savage carried the brave back out, he redressed him in the pants, leggings, and elaborately feathered war bonnet that he had been wearing. The boy hadn’t been wearing a shirt, and Candice blinked when Jack went to his own saddlebags and pulled a buckskin blouse out and dressed the body in it. She had an inane thought: So he did own a shirt—and then a valid one: Why is he giving it to the boy? She grew even more amazed when he tucked one of his Colts and one of his knives into the boy’s belt.
    “What are you doing?” she said again.
    He didn’t look up. “Burying him.”
    “Why did you give him your shirt and gun and your knife?”
    Jack lifted the boy and carried him to a rock outcropping, placing him in a natural crevice. He began to pile rocks over it. “He had no shirt, no weapons,” he said simply.
    She had heard that this was the way Apaches buried their kin, in natural crevices, but she hadn’t believed it. She watched him pile on the stones until the body was no longer visible, the sight making her feel cold and clammy. “I don’t understand.”
    He lifted a large boulder and heaved it on top. When he turned to face her he was sweating freely. “It might be cold.”
    “What?”
    “It’s a four-day journey to the afterworld,” Jack said, gazing at her. “He had no shirt. He could get cold. And he might encounter spirits—evil ones. He had no weapons.” He walked past her.
    Candice just stared.
    He began collecting firewood. Once he had a blaze going he added green juniper and, from his saddlebags, sprigs of what looked to be sage and thyme. Then he strode to the stream, saying “Come here.”
    Still stunned by the entire afternoon, it took Candice a moment to respond. She approached cautiously while he stood impatiently, hands on his hips. “Strip.”
    “What?”
    “Strip. Then get in the water and bathe.”
    Her mouth opened, and she was so affronted and incredulous that for an instant no sound came out. “You have got to be kidding.”
    “No, I’m not,” he said, casually removing his loincloth.
    Candice instantly glanced at his groin, at the flaccid member nestled there, and then she went beet red, turning on her heel. He grabbed her and spun her around. “Just get out of your clothes and into the goddamn water.”
    “What are you going to do?” Her tone was fearful.
    He smiled, not with amusement. “I am not going to do what I’m beginning to think you want me to do,” he said. “Either you take off those clothes or I will.”
    Candice looked away and slowly began unbuttoning her blouse. She dared look at him. He was washing the loincloth with sand and water. She hesitated, reluctant to remove her blouse. She darted another look at him—he was now scrubbing his foot, his ankle. “Take it off,” he said.
    She took it off. “I’m not taking off my underwear,” she stated, removing her jeans.
    He didn’t look up. “Fine.”
    She waded as quickly as she could into the