The Darkest Heart by Brenda Joyce Page A

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 asowls 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?”