The Darkest Heart Read Free

hooves. It could only be Indians, because the Mexican troops never strayed far from the Presidio at Tucson. He crept closer to see.
    He watched his father drunkenly antagonize the small group, then die defending his home. The little cabin went up in flames. The Indians proceeded to loot everything of value. Very, very afraid, the boy turned and ran.
    He didn’t know how the leader saw him, but he knew the instant the Indian on the big bay horse came galloping after him. He ran frantically into the trees, weaving through thick stands of juniper and pinyon. He fell, skinning fus hands and knees, and dared a look over his shoulder. The Indian, a tall young man with waist-length loose black hair, was leaping off his horse. He was clad only in thigh-high moccasins and a breechcloth, and he carried a knife. The boy got to his feet and started running.
    He was grabbed from behind and swung into the air.
    “Fucking savage!” Jack shouted, having learned the phrase from his father. “Let me go, damn fucking savage!”
    The Indian slung him over his shoulder.
    The boy sank his teeth as hard as he could into the man’s neck.
    The Indian never made a sound. His hand closed over the boy’s jaw, fingers digging in painfully, forcing his mouth open. The boy tasted sweat and grease and blood. He was thrown onto the ground, where he lay stunned, nausea and bile welling up within him.
    Laughter sounded.
    The other Indians had gathered and were openly amused. The boy slowly, warily got to his knees, panting, his mouth ringed with the man’s Wood. His heart was thudding wildly in his ribs as he met the tall Indian’s gaze. It wasn’t black with anger, just dark and enigmatic.
    Jack turned on his heels and fled He knew it was hopeless, but he would die before he quit.
    More laughter.
    He was caught instantly. This time the Indian was careful, holding Jack in front of him in his arms while the boy twisted and spat like a wildcat; trying to claw his adversary’s face. The man spoke sharply. Jack didn’t have to speak his language to know he was being told to be still. He didn’t listen.
    He was thrown on the big bay horse, the greased man leaping up behind him. Even as the Indian’s body was touching down, the boy was sliding off. He was hauled unceremoniously back up by one ear—and it hurt.
    So did the hard, stinging slap to his buttocks when he was flipped abruptly over on the rider’s lap. Six smacks, and each hurt worse than the one before—but he wouldn’t cry out. He’d gotten worse from his father many times.
    The man who had captured him was the son of the chief of a band of Chiricahua Apaches, and his name was Cochise. Out of respect for Jack’s fierce bravery, Cochise gave him a name—Niño Salvaje, Wild Boy Child. Mistakenly, the Apache had assumed he was Mexican because so few Americans had drifted this far west.
    Jack did not speak either Spanish or Apache, and it was many years before he understood what his name meant—orthe great honor it was to be named by a respected, famous warrior whom everyone knew would one day be their next chief. Cochise gave him to a Coyotero Apache couple as a gift. Jack knew he was a captive and a slave. He did not know that the gift of a brave boy child to an Apache couple was a special and great honor—for everyone expected him to one day become a fierce Apache warrior.
    And he did.

CHAPTER THREE
    Oh, my God.
    She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, not daring to breathe, not daring to move.
    There was an Indian sitting just a few feet away, across a small fire.
    Where was she? What had happened? My God—she couldn’t have seen what she thought she had seen. Taking a small breath, Candice opened her eyes the tiniest amount possible and peeked out through her lashes.
    She hadn’t been hallucinating.
    And she wasn’t dreaming.
    He was still there—looking straight at her.
    She quickly closed her eyes again, praying that he hadn’t seen her looking at him. He had been staring at her