The blow caught Lark in the side of the head. Caught off balance, she staggered. Shanks pivoted and came back to finish her off. Her eyes widened in terror as she saw the blade coming directly toward her throat. She threw herself to the ground, rolling out of reach of his attack.
“Goddamn ya,” he snarled, whipping around, embarrassed in front of his men. He tried to get to her before she could scramble to her feet. The bitch was faster than he was! Anger destroyed his detached coolness. Just as she turned to face him, he leaned down and, with a hiss, threw a handful of loose sand into her face.
Her cry echoed as the sand blinded her. The instant she raised her hand to protect her eyes, Shanks tackled her. She was thrown several feet backward, slammed to the ground by the force of his assault. Lark felt his weight crush the air from her. With a scream, she struck out blindly with her knife.
Shanks grabbed her right wrist, wringing the bowie from her hand. With a triumphant cry, he captured both her hands and jerked them up over her head. He laughed between panting gasps as he straddled her wriggling, bucking body.
“Got ya now, breed. Yore flat on yore back! I win. Hey, boys! Don’t she look like a wild horse?”
Tears of rage washed the sand from her eyes. Lark fought on for almost three minutes before she finally succumbed to Shanks’s superior strength. She opened her eyes, glaring up at him, breathing hard. Humiliation roared through her as the other men surrounded them, laughing and nudging her insolently with their boots, bruising her flesh. Each kick became a little sharper until her entire body ached.
“Ya lose,” Shanks ground out, sweat making his face gleam. “Yore on yore back first. Like it should be. That’s where all women belong.”
“Never! You cheated! You pindah yudastein!’” she shrilled, trying to fight again.
Shanks gave a wicked chuckle. “Listen to her, boys. She’s cursing me out in Apache. Harley, hold her hands above her head,” he snapped.
With a gasp, Lark watched as Shanks picked up his bowie and ran his thumb along the glinting edge.
“Hey, boss! How about if we all hump her? I got a real itch in my crotch. I could use a piece like her. What ya say?” Harley pleaded.
Shanks looked down at her with the beginnings of a smile as he saw fear replace her hatred. “Wish I could let ya, Harley, but orders is orders. Maybe some other time when the boss gets tired of her and throws her away.” He settled the tip of the blade on the cloth near her waist and slowly slit her shirt, ripping the material with a sickening sound, then pressed the tip against the glistening softness of her throat. A pulse leaped at the base of her neck. Grinning, he set the knife aside and peeled back the damp cotton shirt. “But he never said nothing about us gettin’ a look at the goods.” He ground his hips over the apex of her thighs, watching terror leap to her eyes. She felt pliant and womanly firm beneath him and he rubbed himself a little harder on her, enjoying the rush of turgid blood to his loins that made him hard and ready.
Humiliation swept through Lark. She uttered a small cry, trying to jerk free. It was impossible! The guttural, animal sounds of the men pummeled her ears and she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear the lust burning in their stares.
Shanks watched, almost hypnotized as her pink-tipped breasts rose and fell with every panting breath she took. Now he could see why Cameron wanted the breed. He’d stake his life that she was still a virgin. “Take a good look, boys. She’s got the makings of a first-class whore. Bet she’d go for a pretty penny over at the Spur Saloon.” Lark cringed, her heart pounding like a snared rabbit’s as she felt Shanks’s cool, soft fingers roughly explore first one breast and then the other. His touch was brutal as he massaged and squeezed her, examining her like a horse to be bought. With a cry of pure rage she jerked one hand free and smashed her fist squarely on Shanks’s jaw. His head snapped to one side and, momentarily stunned, he nearly fell off her. She was almost free! But before she could squirm out of his grasp, he shook his head to clear it and repositioned himself on top of her. Lark’s mouth opened in a silent scream as he balled up his right fist and drew it back. The side of her head exploded in a flash of light and pain.
**
It was dark when Lark awoke, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. She was lying sprawled out, facedown in the dirt. Throbbing pain lanced through her temple and right cheek. With a groan, she slowly rolled over and sat up. It took her long minutes to realize that the mules and buckboard were nearby. All around her lay the torn and scattered remains of the supplies, already half covered with the red Arizona earth. Tears filled her eyes as she surveyed the carnage. One hundred dollars’ worth of food had been wasted, money she could ill afford to lose.
With trembling fingers, Lark realized her cheekbone was badly cut, her right eye swollen almost shut. Sticky blood covered her left temple. Her once beautiful red shirt hung open, testimony to the bowie’s sharpness and Shanks’s hatred. She ran her hands slowly up each leg, gingerly testing for broken bones. To her relief, there were none, just bruises and scarring memories. Groggily she remembered Shanks saying something about not hurting her on orders. Whose orders? Cameron’s?
Moving with unaccustomed slowness, Lark staggered to her feet. She found her knife tossed up on the buckboard seat. The Winchester was gone. Otherwise, the animals and the wagon were unharmed. Leaning weakly against one of the mules, Lark fought off a wave of faintness. It was late; Maria would be worried because she hadn’t arrived home before now. Suddenly Lark remembered the cash she had placed in the inside pocket of her shirt. Her heart sank. They had taken the money. Two hundred dollars gone…
Hot, scalding tears fell from her eyes as she rested her head against the mule. No. Us’an, no. Why? Oh, why didn’t I listen to the Old Ones and Maria? I should have waited until the wranglers were able to escort me into town. She knotted her fist, overwhelmed by the realization that her own stubborn pride had contributed to the disaster.
Shakily pulling the ripped shirt closed, Lark picked up the reins and managed to climb into the wagon. Shame flooded her as she thought of what Ny-Oden and the Old Ones would think when she rode into the ranch. And men, from some dim corner of her mind, came an image of Matt Kincaid. To face him, a pindah, would be even more humiliating.
Clucking to the mules, Lark headed numbly for home.
Chapter 6
“Aiyee…”
Maria’s piercing cry jerked Matt awake. The blankets fell away from his bare chest as he forced himself into a sitting position. Kerosene lamps cast deep shadows across the bedroom as Matt twisted to see out the door. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Lark…
More excited voices rose in the yard. Maria was sobbing. Someone else was shouting orders in an urgent tone. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care. Scowling, Matt wrapped his fist into the blankets and shoved himself up against the headboard, waiting. It was impossible to help in his present condition anyway.
His eyes widened as Consuelo, a heavyset Mexican woman, and Maria half carried, half dragged Lark into the bedroom. Shock riveted Matt as he stared at Lark’s torn shirt and blood-encrusted face. She was barely conscious, her chin sunk against her chest.
Maria cast a frightened glance at him as they maneuvered Lark to the bed. “Señor, Patrona Lark is hurt. Forgive us, but we must bring her in here.”
Matt watched as they gently laid Lark down, nausea rising in his throat as Lark’s hair fell away, exposing her battered face and neck.
“My God,” he whispered hoarsely, and automatically leaned forward to place a hand on her shoulder.
“Sí, it’s terrible,” Maria cried, quickly retrieving a bowl of water and a cloth. “Consuelo! Awaken Ny-Oden. Bring him pronto!”
Fingers closed gently over her shoulder, and Lark barely moved her head in that direction. She was desperately thirsty, but had no strength to ask for water.
“Lie very still,” Matt commanded in a rasp.
Maria began to cleanse away the dirt and blood on her face. “What the
hell happened to her?” Matt demanded.
With haunting clarity he remembered Katie’s body lying sprawled facedown in the dirt. Lark looked exactly like Katie had, her face bruised and swollen, covered with blood and dirt. Nausea assailed him again and he turned away, fighting to regain control of his spinning senses.
Huge tears rolled down Maria’s taut, copper-colored cheeks. “Those gringos! That’s who has done this. Aiyee, I told her not to go to Prescott alone. I knew they would attack her. Oh, my poor Lark, my poor niña. Look what they have done to you.”
Matt swallowed hard and his gaze traveled from Lark’s face down her slender neck. A puncture wound that could only have been made with the blade of a knife marred her flawless skin, the dried blood a crimson banner against her ashen flesh. Cold anger uncoiled in Matt’s gut at the sight of the discoloring bruises on the soft mounds of her breasts. The right side of her rib cage was swollen, where he knew someone had kicked her hard. He turned away, struggling to control his seething anger. After a long, torturous silence he demanded hoarsely, “Who did this, Maria?”
“I don’t know,” she wailed. “Oh, look, look—they’ve hurt her so badly, Señor Matt. Why? She has done nothing! My Lark is innocent. All she has ever done is to help those who are less fortunate than herself. She heals animals and people alike. Never has she lifted her hand in anger. Aiyee, this is a terrible tragedy…terrible….
“When I ran out to meet the patrona in the yard, she was barely conscious. She would have fallen off the wagon had I not caught her. Before she fainted, she told me she had no broken bones. Thank the Virgin Mother for that much.” Maria sniffed again, wiping one cheek dry of tears.
How anyone could physically abuse Lark—or any woman—was beyond Matt. Then, remembering his original treatment of her, guilt assailed him. Though he hadn’t physically harmed her, his verbal assault had been just as violent, and just as inexcusable. She’d offered him sanctuary and hospitality—he’d have died without her care—yet he had repaid her with hate and anger.
“Are you sure this was done by a white man?” he asked.
“Sí,” Maria answered. “No Apache would hurt Lark. Not one! Not even that devil, Ga’n. No, Señor, gringos did this. When she awakes, she will name those who are responsible.”
“Has…has she been raped?”
“I do not think so. Aiyee, I pray that it’s not so! Apache maids never know the touch of man until after they are married, señor. Lark is chaste…” At last Maria broke down, weeping loudly as she continued to clean Lark’s battered body. When she was finally finished, she drew up several blankets to Lark’s shoulder. “I will be right back, señor. Consuelo must need help with Ny-Oden. Sometimes, he is in such pain that he cannot move and must be carried. Por favor, please, will you watch over the patrona?”
Matt nodded, his hand never leaving Lark’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of her,” he promised thickly.
The warm afternoon air lifted the lace curtains away from the window, bringing in the sweet scent of wildflowers from the valley, but Matt’s eyes burned with anger as he sat next to Lark’s bed. Earlier, Maria had helped him dress in some borrowed clothes and, after tightly binding his wound, had assisted him into the chair.
The Mexican woman hadn’t questioned his desire to be at Lark’s side.
Ny-Oden sat stoically in a rocking chair on the opposite side of the bed. Matt saw sadness in the shaman’s old eyes, but Ny-Oden had uttered not a word since instructing the women to place healing poultices on Lark’s face and shoulder.
With a sigh, Matt shifted restlessly in the chair. He had questions, and plenty of them, to ask Lark when she awoke. Then he caught himself. Why should he care what had happened to her? His conscience needled him as he sourly considered the answer. He owed Lark Gallagher his life. The least he could do was stick around for a while to repay the debt. Besides, he couldn’t track Ga’n in his present condition. Maybe there was some less physically demanding work Lark might find for him while his leg healed.
When Lark groaned, Matt’s eyes sharpened. Lark had curled up in a tight ball as she slept, only inches from where Matt sat, the white cotton gown she wore accentuating her paleness. A new and unfamiliar ache began in Matt’s chest. He longed to heal her as she had healed him. As much as he had wanted to hate her because Apache blood ran in her veins, he could not. She was a woman, and like Katie in some respects. Both had been vulnerable against a man’s superior strength. Both had paid a price for that weakness. Katie was dead, but Lark survived.
Matt flicked a glance over at the shaman before he reached out to touch Lark, to help her reorient to the world as she awakened. His hand settled gently on her right shoulder.
Lark frowned, feeling the weight and warmth of a hand on her. She heard Matt’s deep-timbered voice move through her like a balm.
“Lark? Don’t try to move. You’ve been hurt. Just lie still and come awake. It’s all right, you’re home and with friends.”
Home…she was home. Slowly, as Lark became more cognizant of her surroundings, she opened her eyes. With a jolt, she realized she was lying in Matt Kincaid’s bed. A swift intake of breath followed and she jerked away from him. Instantly she regretted the movement as blinding pain lanced through her.
“Make no quick movements, daughter,” Ny-Oden counseled in English. “You are safe. Lie there and allow the memory of the past day to slowly come back to you.”
Lark cleared her throat. She was thirsty, but her sensual awareness of Matt Kincaid sliced through her grogginess. She lay on her back and stared up at the rough timbers of the ceiling. Silence settled back into the room as she tried to organize her scattered thoughts.
Finally she looked over at Matt. Unprepared for the anxious flame burning in his eyes, she swallowed convulsively. Unable to bear his pity for her condition, Lark slowly turned her head and met Ny-Oden’s dark stare. She fought the rush of guilt that consumed her. “Grandfather,” she began hoarsely, her voice hardly more than a croak, “I have failed.”
“How, my daughter?”
She forced the words through puffy lips. “I did not listen to you or Maria. I allowed my pride and stubbornness to guide me. I shouldn’t have gone to Prescott alone. Now the supplies are destroyed and the two hundred dollars I was bringing home to pay the wranglers is gone.” She steeled herself for Ny-Oden’s response. Whatever he said in admonishment would be justified.
“Far worse,” Ny-Oden said gently, “was that you were gravely injured, daughter of my heart. Supplies can be bought once again. Money can be remade. But you cannot be replaced.”
A shudder ran through her. “But, I failed you, Grandfather. I failed everyone. We needed the food, and the money is gone.”
“There is no failure in making a decision and trying to carry it through,” Ny-Oden said. “You learned that pride is at best a poor companion. Do not reprimand yourself further. You have learned your lesson.”
Miserably, Lark nodded. “You’ve always taught me to be humble, Grandfather, but my anger over my father’s death and my foolish pride won out.” Moving with extreme slowness, she tried to pull herself into a sitting position, ignoring Matt’s presence.
“Hold it,” he said, gripping her arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
It hurt to move quickly, but Lark jerked her head. Her eyes flared with hatred. He was white. He was a man. And his kind had hurt her. “Let me go,” she demanded.
Matt held her angry blue gaze, feeling a tremor pass through her. “You’re in no shape to be up and about,” he said in a level tone. “If it bothers you that I’m in the same room, I’ll leave. It’s too soon for you to get up, Lark.”
His voice was calming, and when he called her so tenderly by name, all the hatred within her dissolved. She sat very still, thankful that her long hair hid her expression, which she was sure would reveal all too clearly just how strongly he affected her.
“Let go of…me please,” she gritted out.
Shaken by the r
aw ache in her voice, Matt released Lark’s wrist, wincing inwardly when he realized it was the same wrist he’d bruised previously. How much hatred Lark had endured from him since he’d come to the ranch. His mind reeled at the revelation of her father’s death. No wonder he had seen such sadness in Lark’s features. He would ask her more about the loss of her parents. But now was not the time.
“Who did this to you?” he demanded.
Her lower lip trembled with emotion, but she refused to cry. “I’m sure it will give you great satisfaction to know that it was your kind who did it, Mr. Kincaid.”
Matt forced himself to hold her bleak stare. “My kind is your kind. You’re half white,” he reminded her.
Lark reacted as if she had been slapped. “No! I’ll never admit that I’m half white! Your kind did this to me! They stopped my wagon, destroyed the supplies, and then beat me senseless.”
Ny-Oden stirred, getting to his feet with painful slowness. “Daughter,”” he coaxed, “calm yourself. He seeks only to help you, not anger you.”
Whirling toward the shaman, her hair flying around her shoulders, Lark cried out in Apache, “How can you defend him?”
“The truth needs no defense, Lark Who Sings,” he answered in the same language. “You live with each foot in a different, opposing world. If you study his eyes, you will not see revenge in them. Instead, you will find care and concern. Do not burden him with your rage.”
Stung by Ny-Oden’s rebuke, Lark retreated within herself, laying her back against the brass headboard and wrapping her arms around her drawn-up knees. “He has burdened me with his hatred and anger before,” she flung back, refusing to meet the shaman’s eyes.
“And now he is trying to atone for his error by helping you.”
Lark set her lips. “I want no help from any pindah, Grandfather. Not ever! I’ve learned my lesson.”
Hostage Heart Page 10
